WELLS 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


MR.    HOWELLS'S    LATEST    NOVELS 

INDIAN  SUMMER.  A  MODERN  INSTANCE. 

THE  RISE  OF  SILAS  LAPHAM.      DR.  BREEN'S  PRACTICE. 
A  WOMAN'S  REASON.  A  FEARFUL  RESPONSIBILITY. 

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INDIAN    SUMMER 


BY 


WILLIAM    D.    HOWELLS 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  RISE  OF  SILAS  LAPHAM,"  "A  MODERN  INSTANCE," 
"A  WOMAN'S  REASON,"  ETC. 


BOSTON 
TICKNOR    AND    COMPANY 

1886 


Copyright,  i88j, 
BY  WILLIAM  D.  HOWELLS. 


All  rights  reserved. 


fclmforrsttg 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE. 


INDIAN    SUMMER 


MIDWAY  of  the  Ponte  Vecchio  at  Florence,  where 
three  arches  break  the  lines  of  the  little  jewellers' 
booths  glittering  on  either  hand,  and  open  an 
approach  to  the  parapet,  Colville  lounged  against 
the  corner  of  a  shop  and  stared  out  upon  the  river. 
It  was  the  late  afternoon  of  a  day  in  January,  which 
had  begun  bright  and  warm,  but  had  suffered  a 
change  of  mood  as  its  hours  passed,  and  now,  from 
a  sky  dimmed  with  flying  grey  clouds,  was  threaten- 
ing rain.  There  must  already  have  been  rain  in  the 
mountains,  for  the  yellow  torrent  that  seethed  and 
swirled  around  the  piers  of  the  bridge  was  swelling 
momently  on  the  wall  of  the  Lung'  Arno,  and  rolling 
a  threatening  flood  toward  the  Cascine,  where  it  lost 
itself  under  the  ranks  of  the  poplars  that  seemed  to 
file  across  its  course,  and  let  their  delicate  tops  melt 
into  the  pallor  of  the  low  horizon. 

The  city,  with  the  sweep  of  the  Lung'  Arno  on 
either  hand,  and  its  domes  and  towers  hung  in  the 
dull  air,  and  the  country  with  its  white  villas  and 

A 


2  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

black  cypresses  breaking  the  grey  stretches  of  the 
olive  orchards  on  its  hill-sides,  had  alike  been  grow- 
ing more  and  more  insufferable ;  and  Colville  was 
finding  a  sort  of  vindictive  satisfaction  in  the  power 
to  ignore  the  surrounding  frippery  of  landscape  and 
architecture.  He  isolated  himself  so  perfectly  from 
it,  as  he  brooded  upon  the  river,  that,  for  any 
sensible  difference,  he  might  have  been  standing  on 
the  Main  Street  Bridge  at  Des  Vaches,  Indiana, 
looking  down  at  the  tawny  sweep  of  the  Wabash. 
He  had  no  love  for  that  stream,  nor  for  the  ambi- 
tious town  on  its  banks,  but  ever  since  he  woke  that 
morning  he  had  felt  a  growing  conviction  that  he 
had  been  a  great  ass  to  leave  them.  He  had,  in 
fact,  taken  the  prodigious  risk  of  breaking  his  life 
.sharp  off  from  the  course  in  which  it  had  been  set 
for  many  years,  and  of  attempting  to  renew  it  in  a 
direction  from  which  it  had  long  been  diverted. 
Such  an  act  could  be  precipitated  only  by  a  strong 
impulse  of  conscience  or  a  profound  disgust,  and 
with  Colville  it  sprang  from  disgust.  He  had  ex- 
perienced a  bitter  disappointment  in  the  city  to 
whose  prosperity  he  had  given  the  energies  of  his 
best  years,  and  in  whose  favour  he  imagined  that  he 
had  triumphantly  established  himself. 

He  had  certainly  made  the  Des  Vaches  Democrat- 
Republican  a  very  good  paper ;  its  ability  was  recog- 
nised throughout  the  State,  and  in  Des  Vaches 
people  of  all  parties  were  proud  of  it.  They  liked 
every  morning  to  see  what  Colville  said ;  they 
believed  that  in  his  way  he  was  the  smartest  man 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  3 

in  the  State,  and  they  were  fond  of  claiming  that 
there  was  no  such  writer  on  any  of  the  Indianapolis 
papers.  They  forgave  some  political  heresies  to  the 
talent  they  admired ;  they  permitted  him  the  whim 
of  free  trade,  they  laughed  tolerantly  when  he  came 
out  in  favour  of  civil  service  reform,  and  no  one  had 
much  fault  to  find  when  the-  Democrat-Republican 
bolted  the  nomination  of  a  certain  politician  of  its 
party  for  Congress.  But  when.  Colville  permitted 
his  own  name  to  be  used  by  the  opposing  party,  the 
people  arose  in  their  might  and  defeated  him  by  a 
tremendous  majority.  That  was  what  the  regular 
nominee  said.  It  was  a  withering  rebuke  to  treason, 
in  the  opinion  of  this  gentleman  ;  it  was  a  good  joke, 
anyway,  with  the  Democratic  managers  who  had 
taken  Colville  up,  being  all  in  the  Eepublican 
family ;  whichever  it  was,  it  was  a  mortification  for 
Colville  which  his  pride  could  not  brook.  He  stood 
disgraced  before  the  community  not  only  as  a 
theorist  and  unpractical  doctrinaire,  but  as  a  danger- 
ous man  ;  and  what  was  worse,  he  could  not  wholly 
acquit  himself  of  a  measure  of  bad  faith  ;  his  con- 
science troubled  him  even  more  than  his  pride. 
Money  was  found,  and  a  printer  bought  up  with 
it  to  start  a  paper  'in  opposition  to  the  Democrat- 
Republican.  Then  Colville  contemptuously  offered 
to  sell  out  to  the  Republican  committee  in  charge  of 
the  new  enterprise,  and  they  accepted  his  terms. 

In  private  life  he  found  much  of  the  old  kindness 
returning  to  him  ;  and  his  successful  opponent  took 
the  first  opportunity  of  heaping  coals  of  fire  on  his 


4  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

head  in  the  public  street,  when  he  appeared  to  the 
outer  eye  to  be  shaking  hands  with  Colville.  During 
the  months  that  he  remained  to  close  up  his  affairs 
after  the  sale  of  his  paper,  the  Post-Democrat-Eepub- 
lican  (the  newspaper  had  agglutinated  the  titles  of 
two  of  its  predecessors,  after  the  fashion  of  Amer- 
ican journals)  was  fulsome  in  its  complimentary 
allusions  to  him.  It  politely  invented  the  fiction 
that  he  was  going  to  Europe  for  his  health,  impaired 
by  his  journalistic  labours,  and  adventurously  pro- 
mised its  readers  that  they  might  hope  to  hear  from 
him  from  time  to  time  in  its  columns.  In  some  of 
its  allusions  to  him  Colville  detected  the  point  of  a 
fine  irony,  of  which  he  had  himself  introduced  the 
practice  in  the  Democrat-Republican ;  and  he  experi- 
enced, with  a  sense  of  personal  impoverishment,  the 
curious  fact  that  a  journalist  of  strong  characteristics 
leaves  the  tradition  of  himself  in  such  degree  with 
the  journal  he  has  created  that  he  seems  to  bring 
very  little  away.  He  was  obliged  to  confess  in  his 
own  heart  that  the  paper  was  as  good  as  ever.  The 
assistants,  who  had  trained  themselves  to  write  like 
him,  seemed  to  be  writing  quite  as  well,  and  his 
honesty  would  not  permit  him  to  receive  the  conso- 
lation offered  him  by  the  friends  who  told  him  that 
there  was  a  great  falling  off  in  the  Post-Democrat- 
Republican.  Except  that  it  was  rather  more  Stalwart 
in  its  Eepublicanism,  and  had  turned  quite  round  on 
the  question  of  the  tariff,  it  was  very  much  what  it 
had  always  been.  It  kept  the  old  decency  of  tone 
which  he  had  given  it,  and  it  maintained  the  literary 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  5 

character  which  he  was  proud  of.  The  new  manage- 
ment must  have  divined  that  its  popularity,  with  the 
women  at  least,  was  largely  due  to  its  careful  selec- 
tions of  verse  and  fiction,  its  literary  news,  and  its 
full  and  piquant  criticisms,  with  their  long  extracts 
from  new  books.  It  was  some  time  since  he  had 
personally  looked  after  this  department,  and  the 
young  fellow  in  charge  of  it  under  him  had  remained 
with  the  paper.  Its  continued  excellence,  which  he 
could  not  have  denied  if  he  had  wished,  seemed  to 
leave  him  drained  and  feeble,  and  it  was  partly  from 
the  sense  of  this  that  he  declined  the  overtures,  well 
backed  up  with  money,  to  establish  an  independent 
paper  in  Des  Vaches.  He  felt  that  there  was  not 
fight  enough  in  him  for  the  work,  even  if  he  had  not 
taken  that  strong  disgust  for  public  life  which  in- 
cluded the  place  and  its  people.  He  wanted  to  get 
away,  to  get  far  away,  and  with  the  abrupt  and  total 
change  in  his  humour  he  reverted  to  a  period  in  his 
life  when  journalism  and  politics  and  the  ambition 
of  Congress  were  things  undreamed  of. 

At  that  period  he  was  a  very  young  architect, 
with  an  inclination  toward  the  literary  side  of  his 
profession,  which  made  it  seem  profitable  to  linger, 
with  his  Ruskin  in  his  hand,  among  the  masterpieces 
of  Italian  Gothic,  when  perhaps  he  might  have  been 
better  employed  in  designing  red-roofed  many- 
verandaed,  consciously,  mullioned  seaside  cottages 
on  the  New  England  coast.  He  wrote  a  magazine 
paper  on  the  zoology  of  the  Lombardic  pillars  in 
Verona,  very  Ruskinian,  very  scornful  of  modern 


6  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

motive.  He  visited  every  part  of  the  peninsula,  but 
he  gave  the  greater  part  of  his  time  to  North  Italy,  and 
in  Venice  he  met  the  young  girl  whom  he  followed 
to  Florence.  His  love  did  not  prosper ;  when  she 
went  away  she  left  him  in  possession  of  that  treasure 
to  a  man  of  his  temperament,  a  broken  heart.  From 
that  time  his  vague  dreams  began  to  lift,  and  to  let 
him  live  in  the  clear  light  of  common  day ;  but  he 
was  still  lingering  at  Florence,  ignorant  of  the  good 
which  had  befallen  him,  and  cowering  within  him- 
self under  the  sting  of  wounded  vanity,  when  he 
received  a  letter  from  his  elder  brother  suggesting 
that  he  should  come  and  see  how  he  liked  the  archi- 
tecture of  Des  Vaches.  His  brother  had  been  seven 
years  at  Des  Yaches,  where  he  had  lands,  and  a  lead- 
mine,  and  a  scheme  for  a  railroad,  and  had  lately 
added  a  daily  newspaper  to  his  other  enterprises. 
He  had,  in  fact,  added  two  newspapers ;  for  having 
unexpectedly  and  almost  involuntarily  become  the 
owner  of  the  Des  Vaches  Republican,  the  fancy  of 
building  up  a  great  local  journal  seized  him,  and  he 
bought  the  Wabash  Valley  Democrat,  uniting  them 
under  the  name  of  the  Democrat- Republican.  But  he 
had  trouble  almost  from  the  first  with  his  editors, 
and  he  naturally  thought  of  the  brother  with  a  turn 
for  writing  who  had  been  running  to  waste  for  the 
last  year  or  two  in  Europe.  His  real  purpose  was  to 
work  Colville  into  the  management  of  his  paper 
when  he  invited  him  to  come  out  and  look  at  the 
architecture  of  Des  Vaches. 

Colville  went,  because  he  was  at  that  moment  in 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  7 

the  humour  to  go  anywhere,  and  because  his  money 
was  running  low,  and  he  must  begin  work  somehow. 
He  was  still  romantic  enough  to  like  the  notion  of 
the  place  a  little,  because  it  bore  the  name  given  to 
it  by  the  old  French  voyageurs  from  a  herd  of  buffalo 
cows  which  they  had  seen  grazing  on  the  site  ,of  their 
camp  there  ;  but  when  he  came  to  the  place  itself 
he  did  not  like  it.  He  hated  it ;  but  he  stayed,  and 
as  an  architect  was  the  last  thing  any  one  wanted  in 
Des  Vaches  since  the  jail  and  court-house  had  been 
built,  he  became,  half  without  his  willing  it,  a  news- 
paper man.  He  learned  in  time  to  relish  the 
humorous  intimacy  of  the  life  about  him ;  and  when 
it  was  decided  that  he  was  no  fool — there  were 
doubts,  growing  out  of  his  Eastern  accent  and  the 
work  of  his  New  York  tailor,  at  first — he  found 
himself  the  object  of  a  pleasing  popularity.  In  due 
time  he  bought  his  brother  out;  he  became  very 
fond  of  newspaper  life,  its  constant  excitements 
and  its  endless  variety ;  and  six  weeks  before  he 
sold  his  paper  he  would  have  scoffed  at  a  prophecy 
of  his  return  to  Europe  for  the  resumption  of  any 
artistic  purpose  whatever.  But  here  he  was,  loung- 
ing on  the  Ponte  Vecchio  at  Florence,  whither  he 
had  come  with  the  intention  of  rubbing  up  his 
former  studies,  and  of  perhaps  getting  back  to  put 
them  in  practice  at  New  York  ultimately.  He  had 
said  to  himself  before  coming  abroad  that  he  was  in 
no  hurry ;  that  he  should  take  it  very  easily — he 
had  money  enough  for  that ;  yet  he  would  keep 
architecture  before  him  as  an  object,  for  he  had 


8  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

lived  long  in  a  community  where  every  one  was 
intensely  occupied,  and  he  unconsciously"  paid  to 
Des  Vaches  the  tribute  of  feeling  that  an  objectless 
life  was  disgraceful  to  a  man. 

In  the  meantime  he  suffered  keenly  and  at  every 
moment  the  loss  of  the  occupation  of  which  he  had 
bereaved  himself ;  in  thinking  of  quite  other  things, 
in  talk  of  totally  different  matters,  from  the  dreams 
of  night,  he  woke  with  a  start  to  the  realisation  of 
the  fact  that  he  had  no  longer  a  newspaper.  He 
perceived  now,  as  never  before,  that  for  fifteen  years 
almost  every  breath  of  his  life  had  been  drawn  with 
reference  to  his  paper,  and  that  without  it  he  was  in 
some  sort  lost,  and,  as  it  were,  extinct.  A  tide  of 
ridiculous  home-sickness^  which  was  an  expression  of 
this  passionate  regret  for  the  life  he  had  put  behind 
him,  rather  than  any  longing  for  Des  Yaches,  swept 
over  him,  and  the  first  passages  of  a  letter  to  the 
Post-Democrat-Republican  began  to  shape  themselves 
in  his  mind.  He  had  always,  when  he  left  home  for 
New  York  or  Washington,  or  for  his  few  weeks  of 
summer  vacation  on  the  Canadian  rivers  or  the  New 
England  coast,  written  back  to  his  readers,  in  whom 
he  knew  he  could  count  upon  quick  sympathy  in  all 
he  saw  and  felt,  and  he  now  found  himself  address- 
ing them  with  that  frank  familiarity  which  comes  to 
the  journalist,  in  minor  communities,  from  the  habit 
of  print.  He  began  by  confessing  to  them  the  defeat 
of  certain  expectations  with  which  he  had  returned 
to  Florence,  and  told  them  that  they  must  not  look 
for  anything  like  the  ordinary  letters  of  travel  from 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  9 

him.  But  he  was  not  so  singular  in  his  attitude  to- 
ward the  place  as  he  supposed ;  for  any  tourist  who 
comes  to  Florence  with  the  old-fashioned  expectation 
of  impressions  will  probably  suffer  a  disappointment, 
unless  he  arrives  very  young  and  for  the  first  time. 
It  is  a  city  superficially  so  well  known  that  it  affects 
one  somewhat  like  a  collection  of  views  of  itself; 
they  are  from  the  most  striking  points,  of  course, 
but  one  has  examined  them  before,  and  is  disposed 
to  be  critical  of  them.  .Certain  emotions,  certain 
sensations  failed  to  repeat  themselves  to  Colville  at 
sight  of  the  familiar  monuments,  which  seemed  to 
wear  a  hardy  and  indifferent  air,  as  if  being  stared 
at  so  many  years  by  so  many  thousands  of  travellers 
had  extinguished  in  them  that  sensibility  which  one 
likes  to  fancy  in  objects  of  interest  everywhere. 

The  life  which  was  as  vivid  all  about  him  as  if 
caught  by  the  latest  instantaneous  process  made  the 
same  comparatively  ineffective  appeal.  The  operatic 
spectacle  was  still  there.  The  people,  with  their 
cloaks  statuesquely  draped  over  their  left  shoulders, 
moved  down  the  street,  or  posed  in  vehement  dia- 
logue on  the  sidewalks;  the  drama  of  bargaining, 
with  the  customer's  scorn,  the  shopman's  pathos, 
came  through  the  open  shop  door;  the  handsome, 
heavy-eyed  ladies,  the  bare-headed  girls,  thronged 
the  ways;  the  caffes  were  full  of  the  well-remem- 
bered figures  over  their  newspapers  and  little  cups  ; 
the  officers  were  as  splendid  as  of  old,  with  their 
long  cigars  in  their  mouths,  their  swords  kicking 
against  their  beautiful  legs,  and  their  spurs  jingling ; 


10  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

the  dandies,  with  their  little  dogs  and  their  flower- 
like  smiles,  were  still  in  front  of  the  confectioners' 
for  the  inspection  of  the  ladies  who  passed  ;  the  old 
beggar  still  crouched  over  her  scaldino  at  the  church 
door,  and  the  young  man  with  one  leg,  whom  he 
thought  to  escape  by  walking  fast,  had  timed  him  to 
a  second  from  the  other  side  of  the  street.  There 
was  the  wonted  warmth  in  the  sunny  squares,  and 
the  old  familiar  damp  and  stench  in  the  deep  narrow 
streets.  But  some  charm  .had  gone  out  of  all  this. 
The  artisans  coming  to  the  doors  of  their  shallow 
booths  for  the  light  on  some  bit  of  carpentering,  or 
cobbling,  or  tinkering ;  the  crowds  swarming  through 
the  middle  of  the  streets  on  perfect  terms  with  the 
wine-carts  and  cab  horses  ;  the  ineffective  grandi- 
osity of  the  palaces  huddled  upon  the  crooked 
thoroughfares ;  the  slight  but  insinuating  cold  of  the 
southern  winter,  gathering  in  the  shade  and  dis- 
persing in  the  sun,  and  denied  everywhere  by  the 
profusion  of  fruit  and  flowers,  and  by  the  greenery 
of  gardens  showing  through  the  grated  portals 
and  over  the  tops  of  high  walls  ;  the  groups  of  idle 
poor,  permanently  or  temporarily  propped  against 
the  bases  of  edifices  with  a  southern  exposure ;  the 
priests  and  monks  and  nuns  in  their  gliding  passage ; 
the  impassioned  snapping  of  the  cabmen's  whips; 
the  clangour  of  bells  that  at  some  hours  inundated 
the  city,  and  then  suddenly  subsided  and  left  it  to 
the  banging  of  coppersmiths  ;  the  open-air  frying  of 
cakes,  with  its  primitive  smell  of  burning  fat;  the 
tramp  of  soldiery,  and  the  fanfare  of  bugles  blown 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  11 

to  gay  measures— these  and  a  hundred  other  charac- 
teristic traits  and  facts  still  found  a  response  in  the 
consciousness  where  they  were  once  a  rapture  of 
novelty  ;  but  the  response  was  faint  and  thin  ;  he 
could  not  warm  over  the  old  mood  in  which  he  once 
treasured  them  all  away  as  of  equal  preciousness. 

Of  course  there  was  a  pleasure  in  recognising  some 
details  of  former  experience  in  Florence  as  they  re- 
curred. Colville  had  been  met  at  once  by  a  festa, 
when  nothing  could  be  done,  and  he  was  more  than 
consoled  by  the  caressing  sympathy  with  which  he 
was  assured  that  his  broken  trunk  could  not  be 
mended  till  the  day  after  to-morrow ;  he  had  quite 
forgotten  about  the  festas  and  the  sympathy.  That 
night  the  piazza  on  which  he  lodged  seemed  full  of 
snow  to  the  casual  glance  he  gave  it ;  then  he  saw 
that  it  was  the  white  Italian  moonlight,  which  he 
had  also  forgotten 


II. 


COLVILLE  had  reached  this  point  in  that  sarcastic 
study  of  his  own  condition  of  mind  for  the  advan- 
tage of  his  late  readers  in  the  Post-Democrat-Repiib- 
lican,  when  he  was  aware  of  a  polite  rustling  of 
draperies,  with  an  ensuing  well-bred  murmur,  which 
at  once  ignored  him,  deprecated  intrusion  upon  him, 
and  asserted  a  common  right  to  the  prospect  on 
which  he  had  been  dwelling  alone.  He  looked 
round  with  an  instinctive  expectation  of  style  and 
poise,  in  which  he  was  not  disappointed.  The  lady, 
with  a  graceful  lift  of  the  head  and  a  very  erect 
carriage,  almost  Bernhardtesque  in  the  backward 
fling  of  her  shoulders  and  the  strict  compression  of 
her  elbows  to  her  side,  was  pointing  out  the  dif- 
ferent bridges  to  the  little  girl  who  was  with  her. 

"  That  first  one  is  the  Santa  Trinita,  and  the  next 
is  the  Carraja,  and  that  one  quite  down  by  the 
Casein e  is  the  iron  bridge.  The  Cascine  you  re- 
member— the  park  where  we  were  driving — that 
clump  of  woods  there " 

A  vagueness  expressive  of  divided  interest  had 
crept  into  the  lady's  tone  rather  than  her  words. 
12 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  13 

Colville  could  feel  that  she  was  waiting  for  the  right 
moment  to  turn  her  delicate  head,  sculpturesquely 
defined  by  its  toque,  and  steal  an  imperceptible 
glance  at  him :  and  he  involuntarily  afforded  her 
the  coveted  excuse  by  the  slight  noise  he  made  in 
changing  his  position  in  order  to  be  able  to  go  away 
as  soon  as  he  had  seen  whether  she  was  pretty  or 
not.  At  forty-one  the  question  is  still  important  to 
every  man  with  regard  to  every  woman. 

"  Mr.  Colville  ! " 

The  gentle  surprise  conveyed  in  the  exclamation, 
without  time  for  recognition,  convinced  Colville, 
upon  a  cool  review  of  the  facts,  that  the  lady  had 
known  him  before  their  eyes  met. 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Bo  wen  !  "  he  said. 

She  put  out  her  round,  slender  arm,  and  gave 
him  a  frank  clasp  of  her  gloved  hand.  The  glove 
wrinkled  richly  up  the  sleeve  of  her  dress  half-way 
to  her  elbow.  She  bent  on  his  face  a  demand  for 
just  what  quality  and  degree  of  change  he  found  in 
hers,  and  apparently  she  satisfied  herself  that  his 
inspection  was  not  to  her  disadvantage,  for  she 
smiled  brightly,  and  devoted  the  rest  of  her  glance 
to  an  electric  summary  of  the  facts  of  Colville's 
physiognomy ;  the  sufficiently  good  outline  of  his 
visage,  with  its  full,  rather  close-cut,  drabbish-brown 
beard  and  moustache,  both  shaped  a  little  by  the 
ironical  self-conscious  smile  that  lurked  under  them; 
the  non-committal,  rather  weary-looking  eyes ;  the 
brown  hair,  slightly  frosted,  that  showed  while  he 
stood  with  his  hat  still  off.  He  was  a  little  above 


14  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

the  middle  height,  and  if  it  must  be  confessed, 
neither  his  face  nor  his  figure  had  quite  preserved 
their  youthful  lines.  They  were  both  much  heavier 
than  when  Mrs.  Bowen  saw  them  last,  and  the 
latter  here  and  there  swayed  beyond  the  strict 
bounds  of  symmetry.  She  was  herself  in  that 
moment  of  life  when,  to  the  middle-aged  observer, 
at  least,  a  woman's  looks  have  a  charm  which  is 
wanting  to  her  earlier  bloom.  By  that  time  her 
character  has  wrdught  itself  more  clearly  out  in  her 
face,  and  her  heart  and  mind  confront  you  more 
directly  there.  It  is  the  youth  of  her  spirit  which 
has  come  to  the  surface. 

"I  should  have  known  you  anywhere,"  she  ex- 
claimed, with  friendly  pleasure  in  seeing  him. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Colville.  "I  didn't 
know  that  I  had  preserved  my  youthful  beauty  to 
that  degree.  But  I  can  imagine  it — if  you  say  so, 
Mrs.  Bowen." 

"  Oh,  I  assure  you  that  you  have  ! "  she  protested ; 
and  now  she  began  gently  to  pursue  him  with  one 
fine  question  after  another  about  himself,  till  she  had 
mastered  the  main  facts  of  his  history  since  they  had 
last  met.  He  would  not  have  known  so  well  how  to 
possess  himself  of  hers,  even  if  he  had  felt  the  same 
necessity;  but  in  fact  it  had  happened  that  he  had 
heard  of  her  from  time  to  time  at  not  very  long  inter- 
vals. She  had  married  a  leading  lawyer  of  her  West- 
ern city,  who  in  due  time  had  gone  to  Congress,  and 
after  his  term  was  out  had  "  taken  up  his  residence  " 
in  Washington,  as  the  newspapers  said, "  in  his  elegant 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  15 

mansion  at  the  corner  of  &  Street  and  Idaho  Avenue." 
After  that  he  remembered  reading  that  Mrs.  Bowen 
was  going  abroad  for  the  education  of  her  daughter, 
from  which  he  made  his  own  inferences  concerning 
her  marriage.  And  "  You  knew  Mr.  Bowen  was  no' 
longer  living  1 "  she  said,  with  fit  obsequy  of  tone. 

"  Yes,  I  knew,"  he  answered,  with  decent  sym- 
pathy. 

"  This  is  my  little  Effie,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen  after  a 
moment;  and  now  the  child,  hitherto  keeping  her- 
self discreetly  in  the  background,  came  forward  and 
promptly  gave  her  hand  to  Colville,  who  perceived 
that  she  was  not  so  small  as  he  had  thought  her  at 
first  ;  an  effect  of  infancy  had  possibly  been  studied 
in  the  brevity  of  her  skirts  and  the  immaturity  of 
her  corsage,  but  both  were  in  good  taste,  and  really 
to  the  advantage  of  her  young  figure.  There  was 
reason  and  justice  in  her  being  dressed  as  she  was, 
for  she  really  was  not  so  old  as  she  looked  by  two 
or  three"  years ;  and  there  was  reason  in  Mrs. 
Bowen's  carrying  in  the  hollow  of  her  left  arm  the 
India  shawl  sacque  she  had  taken  off  and  hung 
there;  the  deep  cherry  silk  lining  gave  life  to  the 
sombre  tints  prevailing  in  her  dress,  which  its  re- 
moval left  free  to  express  all  the  grace  of  her  ex- 
tremely lady-like  person.  Lady-like  was  the  word 
for  Mrs.  Bowen  throughout — for 'the  turn  of  her 
head,  the  management  of  her  arm  from  the  elbow, 
the  curve  of  her  hand  from  wrist  to  finger-tips,  the 
smile,  subdued,  but  sufficiently  sweet,  playing  about 
her  little  mouth,  which  was  yet  not  too  little,  and  the 


16  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

refined  and  indefinite  perfume  which  exhaled  from 
the  ensemble  of  her  silks,  her  laces,  and  her  gloves, 
like  an  odorous  version  of  that  otherwise  impalpable 
quality  which  women  call  style.  She  had,  with  all 
•her  flexibility,  a  certain  charming  stiffness,  like  the 
stiffness  of  a  very  tall  feather. 

"  And  have  you  been  here  a  great  wrhile  ? "  she 
asked,  turning  her  head  slowly  toward  Colville,  and 
looking  at  him  with  a  little  difficulty  she  had  in  rais- 
ing her  eyelids ;  when  she  was  younger  the  glance 
that  shyly  stole  from  under  the  covert  of  their  lashes 
was  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  and  it  was  still  like  a 
gleam  of  paler  sunshine. 

Colville,  whose  mood  was  very  susceptible  to  the 
weather,  brightened  in  the  ray.  "  I  only  arrived  last 
night,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

"  How  glad  you  must  be  to  get  back  !  Did  you 
ever  see  Florence  more  beautiful  than  it  was  this 
morning  1 " 

"  Not  for  years,"  said  Colville,  with  another  smile 
for  her  pretty  enthusiasm.  "  Not  for  seventeen 
years  at  the  least  calculation." 

"  Is  it  so  many  1 "  cried  Mrs.  Bo  wen,  with  lovely 
dismay.  "  Yes,  it  is,"  she  sighed,  and  she  did  not 
speak  for  an  appreciable  interval. 

He  knew  that  she  was  thinking  of  that  old  love 
affair  of  his,  to  wTiich  she  was  privy  in  some  degrqe, 
though  he  never  could  tell  how  much ;  and  when 
she  spoke  he  perceived  that  she  purposely  avoided 
speaking  of  a  certain  person,  whom  a  woman  of 
more  tact  or  of  less  would  have  insisted  upon  naming 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  17 

at  once.  "  I  never  can  believe  in  the  lapse  of  time 
when  I  get  back  to  Italy ;  it  always  makes  me  feel 
as  young  as  when  I  left  it  last." 

"I  could  imagine  you'd  never  left  it,"  said  Col- 
ville. 

Mrs.  Bowen  reflected  a  moment.  "  Is  that  a 
compliment  1 " 

"  I  had  an  obscure  intention  of  saying  something 
fine ;  but  I  don't  think  I  've  quite  made  it  out,"  he 
owned. 

Mrs.  Bowen  gave  her  small,  sweet  smile.  "It 
was  very  nice  of  you  to  try.  But  I  haven't  really 
been  away  for  some  time;  I've  taken  a  house  in 
Florence,  and  I  've  been  here  two  years.  Palazzo 
Pinti,  Lung'  Arno  della  Zecca.  You  must  come  and 
see  me.  Thursdays  from  four  till  six." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Colville. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  remotely  prepar- 
ing to  offer  her  hand  in  adieu,  "that  Effie  and  I 
broke  in  upon  some  very  important  cogitations  of 
yours."  She  shifted  the  silken  burden  off  her  arm 
a  little,  and  the  child  stirred  from  the  correct  pose 
she  had  been  keeping,  and  smiled  politely. 

"I  don't  think  they  deserve  a  real  dictionary  word 
like  that,"  said  Colville.  "  I  was  simply  mooning. 
If  there  was  anything  definite  in  my  mind,  I  was 
wishing  that  I  was  looking  down  on  the  Wabash  in 
Des  Vaches,  instead  of  the  Arno  in  Florence." 

"  Oh  !  And  I  supposed  you  must  be  indulging 
all  sorts  of  historical  associations  with  the  place. 
Effie  and  I  have  been  walking  through  the  Via  de' 
B 


18  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Bardi,  where  Eomola  lived,  and  I  was  bringing  her 
back  over  the  Ponte  Veechio,  so  as  to  impress  the 
origin  of  Florence  on  her  mind." 

"  Is  that  what  makes  Miss  Effie  hate  it  1 "  asked 
Colville,  looking  at  the  child,  whose  youthful  resem- 
blance to  her  mother  was  in  all  things  so  perfect 
that  a  fantastic  question  whether  she  could  ever 
have  had  any  other  parent  swept  through  him. 
Certainly,  if  Mrs.  Bowen  were  to  marry  again,  there 
was  nothing  in  this  child's  looks  to  suggest  the  idea 
of  a  predecessor  to  the  second  husband. 

"Effie  doesn't  hate  any  sort  of  useful  knowledge," 
said  her  mother  half  jestingly.  "She's  just  come 
to  me  from  school  at  Vevay." 

"  Oh,  then,  I  think  she  might,"  persisted  Colville. 
"  Don't  you  hate  the  origin  of  Florence  a  little  1  " 
he  asked  of  the  child. 

"I  don't  know  enough  about  it,"  she  answered, 
with  a  quick  look  of  question  at  her  mother,  and 
checking  herself  in  a  possibly  indiscreet  smile. 

"Ah,  that  accounts  for  it,"  said  Colville,  and  he 
laughed.  It  amused  him  to  see  the  child  referring 
even  this  point  of  propriety  to  her  mother,  and  his 
thoughts  idled  off  to  what  Mrs.  Bo  wen's  own  un- 
trammelled girlhood  must  have  been  in  her  Western 
city.  For  her  daughter  there  were  to  be  no  buggy 
rides,  or  concerts,  or  dances  at  the  invitation  of 
young  men  ;  no  picnics,  free  and  unchaperoned  as 
the  casing  air ;  no  sitting  on  the  steps  at  dusk  with 
callers  who  never  dreamed  of  asking  for  her  mother ; 
no  lingering  at  the  gate  with  her  youthful  escort 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  19 

home  from  the  ball — nothing  of  that  wild,  sweet 
liberty  which  once  made  American  girlhood  a  long 
rapture.  But  would  she  be  any  the  better  for  her 
privations,  for  referring  not  only  every  point  of 
conduct,  but  every  thought  and  feeling,  to  her 
mother  ?  He  suppressed  a  sigh  for  the  inevitable 
change,  but  rejoiced  that  his  own  youth  had  fallen 
in  the  earlier  time,  and  said,  "You  will  hate  it  as 
soon  as  you've  read  a  little  of  it." 

"The  difficulty  is  to  read  a  little  of  Florentine 
history.  I  can't  find  anything  in  less  than  ten  or 
twelve  volumes,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen.  "Effie  and  I 
were  going  to  Viesseux's  Library  again,  in  despera- 
tion, to  see  if  there  wasn't  something  shorter  in 
French." 

She  now  offered  Colville  her  hand,  and  he  found 
himself  very  reluctant  to  let  it  go.  Something  in 
her  looks  did  not  forbid  him,  and  when  she  took  her 
hand  away,  he  said,  "Let  me  go  to  Viesseux's 
with  you,  Mrs.  Bowen,  and  give  you  the  advantage 
of  my  unprejudiced  ignorance  in  the  choice  of  a 
book  on  Florence." 

"  Oh,  I  was  longing  to  ask  you ! "  said  Mrs. 
Bowen  frankly.  "  It  is  really  such  a  serious  matter, 
especially  when  the  book  is  for  a  young  person. 
Unless  it's  very  dry,  it's  so  apt  to  be — objection- 
able." 

"  Yes,"  said  Colville,  with  a  smile  at  her  perplexity. 
He  moved  off  down  the  slope  of  the  bridge  with  her, 
between  the  jewellers'  shops,  and  felt  a  singular 
satisfaction  in  her  company.  Women  of  fashion 


20  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

always  interested  him ;  he  liked  them ;  it  diverted 
him  that  they  should  take  themselves  seriously. 
Their  resolution,  their  suffering  for  their  ideal,  such 
as  it  was,  their  energy  in  dressing  and  adorning 
themselves,  the  pains  they  were  at  to  achieve  the 
trivialities  they  passed  their  lives  in,  were  perpetu- 
ally delightful  to  him.  He  often  found  them  people 
of  great  simplicity,  and  sometimes  of  singularly 
good  sense ;  their  frequent  vein  of  piety  was  deli- 
cious. 

Ten  minutes  earlier  he  would  have  said  that 
nothing  could  have  been  less  welcome  to  him  than 
this  encounter,  but  now  he  felt  unwilling  to  leave 
Mrs.  Bowen. 

"  Go  before,  Effie,"  she  said ;  and  she  added,  to 
Colville,  "  How  very  Florentine  all  this  is  !  If  you 
dropped  from  the  clouds  on  this  spot  without  pre- 
vious warning,  you  would  knoAV  that  you  were  on 
the  Ponte  Yecchio,  and  nowhere  else." 

"  Yes,  it 's  very  Florentine,"  Colville  assented. 
"  The  bridge  is  very  well  as  a  bridge,  but  as  a  street 
I  prefer  the  Main  Street  Bridge  at  Des  Vaches.  I 
was  looking  at  the  jewellery  before  you  came  up,  and 
I  don't  think  it's  pretty,  even  the  old  pieces  of 
peasant  jewellery.  Why  do  people  come  here  to  look 
at  it  ?  If  you  were  going  to  buy  something  for  a 
friend,  would  you  dream  of  coming  here  for  it  ? " 

"  Oh  no  /"  replied  Mrs.  Bowen,  with  the  deepest 
feeling. 

They  quitted  the  bridge,  and  turning  to  the  left, 
moved  down  the  street  which  with  difficulty  finds 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  21 

space  between  the  parapet  of  the  river  and  the  shops 
of  the  raosaicists  and  dealers  in  statuary  cramping  it 
on  the  other  hand. 

"  Here  's  something  distinctively  Florentine  too," 
said  Colville.  "  These  table-tops,  and  paper-weights, 
and  caskets,  and  photograph  frames,  and  lockets,  and 
breast-pins  ;  and  here,  this  ghostly  glare  of  under- 
sized Psyches  and  Hebes  and  Graces  in  alabaster." 

"  Oh,  you  mustn't  think  of  any  of  them  !"  Mrs. 
Bowen  broke  in  with  horror.  "  If  your  friend  wishes 
you  to  get  her  something  characteristically  Flor- 
entine, and  at  the  same  time  very  tasteful,  you  must 
go- 

Colville  gave  a  melancholy  laugh.  "  My  friend  is 
an  abstraction,  Mrs.  Bowen,  without  sex  or  any  sort 
of  entity." 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Bowen.  Some  fine  drops  had 
begun  to  sprinkle  the  pavement.  "  What  a  ridicu- 
lous blunder  !  It 's  raining  !  Effie,  I  'm  afraid  we 
must  give  up  your  book  for  to-day.  We  're  not 
dressed  for  damp  weather,  and  we  'd  better  hurry 
home  as  soon  as  possible."  She  got  promptly  into 
the  shelter  of  a  doorway,  and  gathered  her  daughter 
to  her,  while  she  flung  her  sacque  over  her  shoulder 
and  caught  her  draperies  from  the  ground  for  the 
next  movement.  "  Mr.  Colville,  will  you  please  stop 
the  first  closed  carriage  that  comes  in  sight  1" 

A  figure  of  primo  tenore  had  witnessed  the  man- 
oauvre  from  the  box  of  his  cab  ;  he  held  up  his  whip, 
and  at  a  nod  from  Colville  he  drove  abreast  of  the 
doorway,  his  broken-kneed,  tremulous  little  horse 


22  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

gay  in  brass-mounted  harness,  and  with  a  stiff  turkey 
feather  stuck  upright  at  one  ear  in  his  head-stall. 

Mrs.  Bowen  had  no  more  scruple  than  another 
woman  in  stopping  travel  and  traffic  in  a  public 
street  for  her  convenience.  She  now  entered  into  a 
brisk  parting  conversation  with  Colville,  such  as 
ladies  love,  blocking  the  narrow  sidesvalk  with  her- 
self, her  daughter,  and  her  open  carriage  door,  and 
making  people  walk  round  her  cab,  in  the  road, 
which  they  did  meekly  enough,  with  the  Florentine 
submissiveness  to  the  pretensions  of  any  sort  of 
vehicle.  She  said  a  dozen  important  things  that 
seemed  to  have  just  come  into  her  head,  and,  "  Why, 
how  stupid  I  am  !"  she  called  out,  making  Colville 
check  the  driver  in  his  first  start,  after  she  had  got 
into  the  cab.  "  We  are  to  have  a  few  people  to- 
night. If  you  have  no  engagement,  I  should  be  so 
glad  to  have  you  come.  Can't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  can,"  said  Colville,  admiring  the  whole 
transaction  and  the  parties  to  it  with  a  passive 
smile. 

After  finding  her  pocket,  she  found  that  her  card- 
case  was  not  in  it,  but  in  the  purse  she  had  given 
Effie  to  carry ;  but  she  got  her  address  at  vlast,  and 
gave  it  to  Colville,  though  he  said  he  should  re- 
member it  without.  "Any  time  between  nine  and 
eleven,"  she  said.  "  It's  so  nice  of  you  to  promise  !" 

She  questioned  him  from  under  her  half-lifted 
eyelids,  and  he  added,  with  a  laugh,  "  I  '11  come  !" 
and  was  rewarded  with  two  pretty  smiles,  just  alike, 
from  mother  and  daughter,  as  they  drove  away. 


III. 


TWENTY  years  earlier,  when  Mrs.  Bowen  was  Miss 
Lina  Ridgely,  she  used  to  be  the  friend  and  confi- 
dante of  the  girl  who  jilted  Colville.  They  were 
then  both  so  young  that  they  could  scarcely  have 
been  a  year  out  of  school  before  they  left  home  for 
the  year  they  were  spending  in  Europe  ;  but  to  the 
young  man's  inexperience  they  seemed  the  wisest 
and  maturest  of  society  women.  His  heart  quaked 
in  his  breast  when  he"  saw  them  talking  and  laughing 
together,  for  fear  they  should  be  talking  and  laugh- 
ing about  him  ;  he  was  even  a  little  more  afraid  of 
Miss  Ridgely  than  of  her  friend,  who  was  dashing 
and  effective,  where  Miss  Ridgely  was  serene  and 
elegant,  according  to  his  feeling  at  that  time ;  but 
he  never  saw  her  after  his  rejection,  and  it  was  not 
till  he  read  of  her  marriage  with  the  Hon.  Mr. 
Bowen  that  certain  vague  impressions  began  to  de- 
fine themselves.  He  then  remembered  that  Lina 
Ridgely  in  many  fine  little  ways  had  shown  a  kind- 
ness, almost  a  compassion,  for  him,  as  for  one  whose 
unconsciousness  a  hopeless  doom  impended  over. 
He  perceived  that  she  had  always  seemed  to  like 


24  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

him — a  thing  that  had  not  occurred  to  him  in  the 
stupid  absorption  of  his  passion  for  the  other — and 
fragments  of  proof  that  she  had  probably  defended 
and  advocated  him  occurred  to  him,  and  inspired  a 
vain  and  retrospective  gratitude  ;  he  abandoned  him- 
self to  regrets,  which  were  proper  enough  in  regard 
to  Miss  Ridgely,  but  were  certainly  a  little  unlawful 
concerning  Mrs.  Bowen. 

As  he  walked  away  toward  his  hotel  he  amused 
himself  with  the  conjecture  whether  he,  with  his 
forty-one  years  and  his  hundred  and  eighty- five 
pounds,  were  not  still  a  pathetic  and  even  a  roman- 
tic figure  to  this  pretty  and  kindly  woman,  who 
probably  imagined  him  as  heart-broken  as  ever. 
He  was  very  willing  to  see  more  of  her,  if  she 
wished  ;  but  with  the  rain  beginning  to  fall  more 
thick  and  chill  in  the  darkening  street,  he  could  have 
postponed  their  next  meeting  till  a  pleasanter  even- 
ing without  great  self-denial.  He  felt  a  little  twinge 
of  rheumatism  in  his  shoulder  when  he  got  into  his 
room,  for  your  room  in  a  Florentine  hotel  is  always 
some  degrees  colder  than  outdoors,  unless  you 
have  fire  in  it;  and  with  the  sun  shining  on  his 
\vindows  when  he  went  out  after  lunch,  it  had 
seemed  to  Colville  ridiculous  to  have  his  morning 
fire  kept  up.  The  sun  was  what  he  had  taken  the 
room  for.  It  was  in  it,  the  landlord  assured  him, 
from  ten  in  the  morning  till  four  in  the  afternoon ; 
and  so,  in  fact,  it  was,  when  it  shone ;  but  even  then 
it  was  not  fully  in  it,  but  had  a  trick  of  looking  in  at 
the  sides  of  the  window,  and  painting  the  chamber 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  25 

wall  with  a  delusive  glow.  Colville  raked  away  the 
ashes  of  his  fire-place,  and  throwing  on  two  or  three 
fagots  of  broom  and  pine  sprays,  he  had  a  blaze  that 
would  be  very  pretty  to  dress  by  after  dinner,  but 
that  gave  out  no  warmth  for  the  present.  He  left 
it,  and  went  down  to  the  reading-room,  as  it  was 
labelled  over  the  door,  in  homage  to  a  predominance 
of  English-speaking  people  among  the  guests;  but 
there  was  no  fire  there ;  that  was  kindled  only  by 
request,  and  he  shivered  at  the  bare  aspect  of  the 
apartment,  with  its  cold  piano,  its  locked  bookcases, 
and  its  table,  where  the  London  Times,  the  Neue 
Freie  Presse  of  Vienna,  and  the  Italie  of  Rome  ex- 
posed their  titles,  one  just  beyond  the  margin  of  the 
other.  He  turned  from  the  door  and  went  into  the 
dining-room,  where  the  stove  was  ostentatiously 
roaring  over  its  small  logs  and  its  lozenges  of  peat. 
But  even  here  the  fire  had  been  so  recently  lighted 
that  the  warmth  was  potential  rather  than  actual. 
By  stooping  down  before  the  stove,  and  pressing  his 
shoulder  against  its  brass  doors,  Colville  managed  to 
lull  his  enemy,  while  he  studied  the  figures  of  the 
woman-headed,  woman-breasted  hounds  developing 
into  vines  and  foliage  that  covered  the  frescoed 
trellising  of  the  quadrangularly  vaulted  ceiling. 
The  waiters,  in  their  veteran  dress-coats,  were  put- 
ting the  final  touches  to  the  table,  and  the  sound 
of  voices  outside  the  door  obliged  Colville  to  get  up. 
The  effort  involved  made  him  still  more  reluctant 
about  going  out  to  Mrs.  Bowen's. 

The  door  opened,  and  some  English  ladies  entered, 


26  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

faintly  acknowledging,  provisionally  ignoring,  his 
presence,  and  talking  of  what  they  had  been  doing 
since  lunch.  They  agreed  that  it  was  really  too  cold 
in  the  churches  for  any  pleasure  in  the  pictures,  and 
that  the  Pitti  Gallery,  where  they  had  those  braziers, 
was  the  only  place  you  could  go  with  comfort.  A 
French  lady  and  her  husband  came  in ;  a  Russian 
lady  followed;  an  Italian  gentleman,  an  American 
family,  and  three  or  four  detached  men  of  the  English- 
speaking  race,  whose  language  at  once  became  the 
law  of  the  table. 

As  the  dinner  progressed  from  soup  to  fish,  and 
from  the  entrde  to  the  roast  and  salad,  the  combined 
effect  of  the  pleasant  cheer  and  the  increasing 
earnestness  of  the  stove  made  the  room  warmer  and 
warmer.  They  drank  Chianti  wine  from  the  wicker- 
covered  flasks,  tied  with  tufts  of  red  and  green  silk, 
in  which  they  serve  table  wine  at  Florence,  and  said 
how  pretty  the  bottles  were,  but  how  the  wine  did 
not  seem  very  good. 

"  It  certainly  isn't  so  good  as  it  used  to  be,"  said 
Colville. 

"  Ah,  then  you  have  been  in  Florhence  before," 
said  the  French  lady,  whose  English  proved  to  be 
much  better  than  the  French  that  he  began  to  talk 
to  her  in. 

"  Yes,  a  great  while  ago ;  in  a  state  of  pre-exist- 
ence,  in  fact,"  he  said. 

The  lady  looked  a  little  puzzled,  but  interested. 
"  In  a  state  of  prhe-existence  1"  she  repeated. 

"  Yes  ;  when  I  was  young,"  he  added,  catching  the 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  27 

gleam  in  her  eye.     "  When  I  was  twenty-four.     A 
great  while  ago." 

"  You  must  be  an  Amerhican,"  said  the  lady,  with 
a  laugh. 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?     From  my  accent  ?" 

"  Frhom  your  metaphysics  too.  The  Amerhicans 
like  to  talk  in  that  way." 

"  I  didn't  know  it,"  said  Colville. 

"  They  like  to  strhike  the  key  of  perhsonality ; 
they  can't  endure  not  being  interhested.  They  must 
rhelate  everything  to  themselves  or  to  those  with 
whom  they  are  talking." 

"  And  the  French,  no  ?"  asked  Colville. 

The  lady  laughed  again.  "  There  is  a  large 
Arnerhican  colony  in  Parhis.  Perhaps  we  have 
learned  to  be  like  you." 

The  lady's  husband  did  not  speak  English,  and  it 
was  probably  what  they  had  been  saying  that  she 
interpreted  to  him,  for  he  smiled,  looking  forward  to 
catch  Colville's  eye  in  a  friendly  way,  and  as  if  he 
would  not  have  him  take  his  wife's  talk  too  seriously. 

The  Italian  gentleman  on  Colville's  right  was 
politely  offering  him  the  salad,  which  had  been  left 
for  the  guests  to  pass  to  one  another.  Colville 
thanked  him  in  Italian,  and  they  began  to  talk  of 
Italian  affairs.  One  thing  led  to  another,  and  he 
found  that  his  new  friend,  who  was  not  yet  his 
acquaintance,  was  a  member  of  Parliament,  and  a 
republican. 

*    "  That  interests  me  as  an  American,"  said  Colville. 
"  But  why  do  you  want  a  republic  in  Italy  V1 


28  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  When  we  have  a  constitutional  king,  why  should 
we  have  a  king  ?"  asked  the  Italian. 

An  Englishman  across  the  table  relieved  Colville 
from  the  difficulty  of  answering  this  question  by 
asking  him  another  that  formed  talk  about  it  between 
them.  He  made  his  tacit  observation  that  the 
English,  since  he  met  them  last,  seemed  to  have 
grown  in  the  grace  of  facile  speech  with  strangers ; 
it  was  the  American  family  which  kept  its  talk 
within  itself,  and  hushed  to  a  tone  so  low  that  no 
one  else  could  hear  it.  Colville  did  not  like  their 
mumbling ;  for  the  honour  of  the  country,  which  we 
all  have  at  heart,  however  little  we  think  it,  he  would 
have  preferred  that  they  should  speak  up,  and  not 
seem  afraid  or  ashamed ;  he  thought  the  English 
manner  was  better.  In  fact,  he  found  himself  in  an 
unexpectedly  social  mood ;  he  joined  in  helping  to 
break  the  ice ;  he  laughed  and  hazarded  comment 
with  those  who  were  new-comers  like  himself,  and 
was  very  respectful  of  the  opinions  of  people  who 
had  been  longer  in  the  hotel,  when  they  spoke  of 
the  cook's  habit  of  underdoing  the  vegetables.  The 
dinner  at  the  Hotel  d'Atene  made  an  imposing  show 
on  the  carte  du  jour ;  it  looked  like  ten  or  twelve 
courses,  but  in  fact  it  was  five,  and  even  when  eked 
out  with  roast  chestnuts  and  butter  into  six,  it 
seemed  somehow  to  stop  very  abruptly,  though  one 
seemed  to  have  had  enough.  You  could  have  coffee 
afterward  if  you  ordered  it.  Colville  ordered  it,  and 
was  sorry  when  the  last  of  his  commensals,  slightly 
bowing  him  a  good-night,  left  him  alone  to  it. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  29 

He  had  decided  that  he  need  not  fear  the  damp  in 
a  cab  rapidly  driven  to  Mrs.  Bowen's.  When  he 
went  to  his  room  he  had  his  doubts  about  his  dress- 
coat  ;  but  he  put  it  on,  and  he  took  the  crush  hat 
with  which  he  had  provided  himself  in  coming 
through  London.  That  was  a  part  of  the  social 
panoply  unknown  in  Des  Vaches ;  he  had  hardly 
been  a  dozen  times  in  evening  dress  there  in  fifteen 
years,  and  his  suit  was  as  new  as  his  hat.  As  he 
turned  to  the  glass  he  thought  himself  personable 
enough,  and  in  fact  he  was  one  of  those  men  who 
look  better  in  evening  dress  than  in  any  other  :  the 
broad  expanse  of  shirt  bosom,  with  its  three  small 
studs  of  gold  dropping,  points  of  light,  one  below 
the  other,  softened  his  strong,  almost  harsh  face,  and 
balanced  his  rather  large  head.  In  his  morning 
coat,  people  had  to  look  twice  at  him  to  make  sure 
that  he  did  not  look  common  ;  but  now  he  was  not 
wrong  in  thinking  that  he  had  an  air  of  distinction, 
as  he  took  his  hat  under  his  arm  and  stood  before 
the  pier-glass  in  his  room.  He  was  almost  tempted 
to  shave,  and  wear  his  moustache  alone,  as  he  used  to 
do  :  he  had  let  his  beard  grow  because  he  found 
that  under  the  lax  social  regimen  at  Des  Vaches  he 
neglected  shaving,  and  went  about  days  at  a  time 
with  his  face  in  an  offensive  stubble.  Taking  his 
chin  between  his  fingers,  and  peering  closer  into  the 
mirror,  he  wondered  how  Mrs.  Bowen  should  have 
known  him;  she  must  have  remembered  him  very 
vividly.  He  would  like  to  take  off  his  beard  and 
put  on  the  youthfulness  that  comes  of  shaving,  and 


30  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

see  what  she  would  say.  Perhaps,  he  thought, 
with  a  last  glance  at  his  toilet,  he  was  overdoing 
it,  if  she  were  only  to  have  a  few  people,  as  she 
promised.  He  put  a  thick  neckerchief  over  his 
chest  so  as  not  to  provoke  that  abominable  rheu- 
matism by  any  sort  of  exposure,  and  he  put  on  his 
ulster  instead  of  the  light  spring  overcoat  that  he 
had  gone  about  with  all  day. 

He  found  that  Palazzo  Pinti,  when  you  came  to 
it,  was  rather  a  grand  affair,  with  a  gold-banded 
porter  eating  salad  in  the  lodge  at  the  great  door- 
way, and  a  handsome  gate  of  iron  cutting  you  off 
from  the  regions  above  till  you  had  rung  the  bell  of 
Mrs.  Bowen's  apartment,  when  it  swung  open  of 
itself,  and  you  mounted.  At  her  door  a  man  in 
modified  livery  received  Colville,  and  helped  him 
off  with  his  overcoat  so  skilfully  that  he  did  not 
hurt  his  rheumatic  shoulder  at  all ;  there  were  half 
a  dozen  other  hats  and  coats  on  the  carved  chests 
that  stood  at  intervals  along  the  wall,  and  some 
gayer  wraps  that  exhaled  a  faint,  fascinating  fra- 
grance on  the  chilly  air.  Colville  experienced  the 
slight  exhilaration,  the  mingled  reluctance  and  eager- 
ness, of  a  man  who  formally  re-enters  an  assemblage 
of  society  after  long  absence  from  it,  and  rubbing 
his  hands  a  little  nervously  together,  he  put  aside 
the  yellow  Abruzzi  blanket  portttre,  and  let  him- 
self into  the  brilliant  interior. 

Mrs.  Bowen  stood  in  front  of  the  fire  in  a  brown 
silk  of  subdued  splendour,  and  with  her  hands  and 
fan  and  handkerchief  tastefully  composed  before  her. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  31 

At  sight  of  Colville  she  gave  a  slight  start,  which 
would  have  betrayed  to  him,  if  he  had  been  another 
woman,  that  she  had  not  really  believed  he  would 
come,  and  came  forward  with  a  rustle  and  murmur 
of  pleasure  to  meet  him ;  he  had  politely  made  a 
rush  upon  her,  so  as  to  spare  her  this  exertion,  and 
he  was  tempted  to  a  long-forgotten  foppishness  of 
attitude  as  he  stood  talking  with  her  during  the 
brief  interval  before  she  introduced  him  to  any  of 
the  company.  She  had  been  honest  with  him ; 
there  were  not  more  than  twenty-five  or  thirty 
people  there ;  but  if  he  had  overdone  it  in  dressing 
for  so  small  an  affair,  he  was  not  alone,  and  he  was 
not  sorry.  He  was  sensible  of  a  better  personal 
effect  than  the  men  in  frock-coats  and  cut-aways 
were  making,  and  he  perceived  with  self-satisfac- 
tion that  his  evening  dress  was  of  better  style  than 
that  of  the  others  who  wore  it;  at  least  no  one 
else  carried  a  crush  hat. 

At  forty-one  a  man  is  still  very  much  of  a  boy, 
and  Colville  was  obscurely  willing  that  Mrs.  Bowen, 
whose  life  since  they  last  met  at  an  evening  party 
had  been  passed  chiefly  at  New  York  and  Washing- 
ton, should  see  that  he  was  a  man  of  the  world  in 
spite  of  Des  Vaches.  Before  she  had  decided  which 
of-  the  company  she  should  first  present  him  to,  her 
daughter  came  up  to  his  elbow  with  a  cup  of  tea 
and  some  bread  and  butter  on  a  tray,  and  gave  him 
good-evening  with  charming  correctness  of  manner. 
"  Really,"  he  said,  turning  about  to  take  the  cup, 
"  I  thought  it  was  you,  Mrs.  Bowen,  who  had  got 


32  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

round  to  my  side  with  a  sash  on.  How  do  you  and 
Miss  Effie  justify  yourselves  in  looking  so  bewitch- 
ingly  alike  ? " 

"  You  notice  it,  then  1 "  Mrs.  Bowen  seemed 
delighted. 

"  I  did  every  moment  you  were  together  to-day. 
You  don't  mind  my  having  been  so  personal  in  my 
observations  ? " 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  and  Colville 
laughed. 

"  It  must  be  true,"  he  said,  "  what  a  French  lady 
said  to  me  at  the  table-d'hote  dinner  to-night :  '  the 
Amerhicans  always  strhike  the  note  of  perhsona- 
lity.' "  He  neatly  imitated  the  French  lady's  gut- 
tural accent. 

"I  suppose  we  do,"  mused  Mrs.  Bowen,  "and 
that  we  don't  mind  it  in  each  other.  I  wish  you 
would  say  which  I  shall  introduce  you  to,"  she 
said,  letting  her  glance  stray  invisibly  over  her 
company,  where  all  the  people  seemed  comfortably 
talking. 

"  Oh,  there 's  no  hurry  ;  put  it  off  till  to-morrow," 
said  Colville. 

"  Oh  no ;  that  won't  do,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  like  a 
woman  who  has  public  duties  to  perform,  and  is 
resolute  to  sacrifice  her  private  pleasure  to  them. 
But  she  postponed  them  a  moment  longer.  "  I  hope 
you  got  home  before  the  rain,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Colville.  "  That  is,  I  don't  mind 
a  little  sprinkling.  Who  is  the  Junonian  young 
person  at  the  end  of  the  room  1 " 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  33 

"Ah,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  "you  can't  be  introduced 
to  her  first.  But  isn't  she  lovely  ? " 

"  Yes.     It 's  a  wonderful  eifect  of  white  and  gold." 

"  You  mustn't  say  that  to  her.  She  was  doubtful 
about  her  dress,  because  she  says  that  the  ivory  white 
with  her  hair  makes  her  look  just  like  white  and 
gold  furniture." 

"  Present  me  at  once,  then,  before  I  forget  not  to 
say  it  to  her." 

"  No  ;  I  must  keep  you  for  some  other  person  : 
anybody  can  talk  to  a  pretty  girl." 

Colville  said  he  did  not  know  whether  to  smile  or 
shed  tears  at  this  embittered  compliment,  and  pre- 
tended an  eagerness  for  the  acquaintance  denied 
him. 

Mrs.  Bowen  seemed  disposed  to  intensify  his 
misery.  "  Did  you  ever  see  a  more  statuesque  crea- 
ture— with  those  superb  broad  shoulders  and  that 
little  head,  and  that  thick  braid  brought  round  over 
the  top  1  Doesn't  her  face,  with  that  calm  look  in 
those  starry  eyes,  and  that  peculiar  fall  of  the 
corners  of  the  mouth,  remind  you  of  some  of  those 
exquisite  great  Du  Maurier  women  1  That  style  of 
face  is  very  fashionable  now  :  you  might  think  he 
had  made  it  so." 

"  Is  there  a  fashion  in  faces  ?"  asked  Colville. 

"  Why,  certainly.     You  must  know  that." 

"  Then  why  aren't  all  the  ladies  in  the  fashion  V 

"  It  isn't  one  that  can  be  put  on.  Besides,  every 
one  hasn't  got  Imogene  Graham's  figure  to  carry  it 
off." 


34  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  That  ;s  her  name,  then — Imogene  Graham.  It  's 
a  very  pretty  name." 

"  Yes.  She 's  staying  with  me  for  the  winter. 
Now  that 's  all  I  can  allow  you  to  know  for  the  pre- 
sent. Come  !  You  must ! " 

"But  this  is  worse  than  nothing."  He, made  a 
feint  of  protesting  as  she  led  him  away,  and  named 
him  to  the  lady  she  wished  him  to  know.  But  he 
was  not  really  sorry ;  he  had  his  modest  misgivings 
whether  he  were  equal  to  quite  so  much  young  lady 
as  Miss  Graham  seemed.  When  he  no  longer  looked 
at  her  he  had  a  whimsical  impression  of  her  being  a 
heroic  statue  of  herself. 

The  lady  whom  Mrs.  Bowen  left  him  with  had 
not  much  to  say,  and  she  made  haste  to  introduce 
her  husband,  who  had  a  great  deal  to  say.  He  was 
an  Italian,  but  master  of  that  very  efficient  English 
which  the  Italians  get  together  with  unimaginable 
sufferings  from  our  orthography,  and  Colville  re- 
peated the  republican  deputy's  saying  about  a  con- 
stitutional king,  which  he  had  begun  to  think  was 
neat. 

"I  might  prefer  a  republic  myself,"  said  the 
Italian,  "  but  I  think  that  gentleman  is  wrong  to  be 
a  republican  where  he  is,  and  for  the  present.  The 
monarchy  is  the  condition  of  our  unity  ;  nothing  else 
could  hold  us  together,  and  we  must  remain  united 
if  we  are  to  exist  as  a  nation.  It 's  a  necessity,  like 
our  army  of  half  a  million  men.  We  may  not  like 
it  in  itself,  but  we  know  that  it  is  our  salvation." 
He  began  to  speak  of  the  economic  state  of  Italy,  of 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  35 

the  immense  cost  of  freedom  and  independence  to  a 
people  whose  political  genius  enables  them  to  bear 
quietly  burdens  of  taxation  that  no  other  govern- 
ment would  venture  to  impose.  He  spoke  with  that 
fond,  that  appealing  patriotism,  which  expresses  so 
much  to  the  sympathetic  foreigner  in  Italy :  the 
sense  of  great  and  painful  uncertainty  of  Italy's 
future  through  the  complications  of  diplomacy,  the 
memory  of  her  sufferings  in  the  past,  the  spirit  of 
quiet  and  inexhaustible  patience  for  trials  to  come. 
This  resolution,  which  is  almost  resignation,  poetises 
the  attitude  of  the  whole  people ;  it  made  Colville 
feel  as  if  he  had  done  nothing  and  borne  nothing 
yet. 

"  I  am  ashamed,"  he  said,  not  without  a  remote 
resentment  of  the  unworthiness  of  the  republican 
voters  of  Des  Vaches,  "  when  I  hear  of  such  things, 
tp  think  of  what  we  are  at  home,  with  all  our 
resources  and  opportunities." 

The  Italian  would  have  politely  excused  us  to 
him,  but  Colville  would  have  no  palliation  of  our 
political  and  moral  nakedness ;  and  he  framed  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  letter  he  began  on  the  Ponte  Vecchio 
to  the  Post-Democrat-Eepublican,  in  which  he  made  a 
bitterly  ironical  comparison  of  the  achievements  of 
Italy  and  America  in  the  last  ten  years. 

He  forgot  about  Miss  Graham,  and  had  only  a 
vague  sense  of  her  splendour  as  he  caught  sight  of 
her  in  the  long  mirror  which  she  stood  before.  She 
was  talking  to  a  very  handsome  young  clergyman, 
and  smiling  upon  him.  The  company  seemed  to  be 


36  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

mostly  Americans,  but  there  were  a  good  many 
evident  English  also,  and  Colville  was  dimly  aware 
of  a  question  in  his  mind  whether  this  clergyman 
was  English  or  American.  There  were  three  or  four 
Italians  and  there  were  some  Germans,  who  spoke 
English. 

Colville  moved  about  from  group  to  group  as  his 
enlarging  acquaintance  led,  and  found  himself  more 
interested  in  society  than  he  could  ever  have  dreamed 
of  being  again.  It  was  certainly  a  defect  of  the  life 
at  Des  Vaches  that  people,  after  the  dancing  and 
love-making  period,  went  out  rarely  or  never.  He 
began  to  see  that  the  time  he  had  spent  so  busily  in 
that  enterprising  city  had  certainly  been  in  some 
sense  wasted. 

At  a  certain  moment  in  the  evening,  which  perhaps 
marked  its  advancement,  the  tea-urn  was  replaced  by 
a  jug  of  the  rum  punch,  mild  or  strong  according  to 
the  custom  of  the  house,  which  is  served  at  most 
Florentine  receptions.  Some  of  the  people  went 
immediately  after,  but  the  young  clergyman  remained 
talking  with  Miss  Graham. 

Colville,  with  his  smoking  glass  in  his  hand,  found 
himself  at  the  side  of  a  friendly  old  gentleman  who 
had  refused  the  punch.  They  joined  in  talk  by 
a  common  impulse,  and  the  old  gentleman  said, 
directly,  "  You  are  an  American,  I  presume  1 " 

His  accent  had  already  established  the  fact  of  his 
own  nationality,  but  he  seemed  to  think  it  the  part 
of  candour  to  say,  when  Colville  had  acknowledged 
his  origin,  "  I  'm  an  American  myself." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  37 

"  I  Ve  met  several  of  our  countrymen  since  I 
arrived,"  suggested  Colville. 

The  old  gentleman  seemed  to  like  this  way  of 
putting  it.  "  Well,  yes,  we  're  not  unfairly  repre- 
sented here  in  numbers,  I  must  confess.  But  I  'm 
bound  to  say  that  I  don't  find  our  countrymen  so 
aggressive,  so  loud,  as  our  international  novelists 
would  make  out.  I  haven't  met  any  of  their  peculiar 
heroines  as  yet,  sir." 

Colville  could  not  help  laughing.  "  I  wish  /  had. 
But  perhaps  they  avoid  people  of  our  years  and  dis- 
cretion, or  else  take  such  a  filial  attitude  toward  us 
that  we  can't  recognise  them." 

"  Perhaps,  perhaps,"  cried  the  old  gentleman,  with 
cheerful  assent. 

"  I  was  talking  with  one  of  our  German  friends 
here  just  now,  and  he  complained  that  the  American 
girls — especially  the  rich  ones — seem  very  calculat- 
ing and  worldly  and  conventional.  I  told  him  I 
didn't  know  how  to  account  for  that.  I  tried  to 
give  him  some  notion  of  the  ennobling  influences  of 
society  in  Newport,  as  I  Ve  had  glimpses  of  it." 

The  old  gentleman  caressed  his  elbows,  which  he 
waS  holding  in  the  palms  of  his  hands,  in  high 
enjoyment  of  Colville's  sarcasm.  "  Ah  !  very  good  ! 
very  good  ! "  he  said.  "  I  quite  agree  with  you,  and 
I  think  the  other  sort  are  altogether  preferable." 

"  I  think,"  continued  Colville,  dropping  his  ironi- 
cal tone,  "  that  we  Ve  much  less  to  regret  in  their 
unsuspecting,  unsophisticated  freedom  than  in  the 
type  of  hard  materialism  which  we  produce  in  young 


38  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

girls,  perfectly  wide  awake,  disenchanted,  unromantic, 
who  prefer  the  worldly  vanities  and  advantages  de- 
liberately and  on  principle,  recognising  something 
better  merely  to  despise  it.  I  've  sometimes  seen 
them— 

Mrs.  Bowen  came  up  in  her  gentle,  inquiring  way. 
"I'm  glad  that  you  and  Mr.  Colville  have  made 
acquaintance,"  she  said  to  the  old  gentleman. 

"Oh,  but  we  haven't,"  said  Colville.  "We're 
entire  strangers." 

"  Then  1 11  introduce  you  to  Rev.  Mr.  Waters. 
And  take  you  away,"  she  added,  putting  her  hand 
through  Colville's  arm  with  a  delicate  touch  that 
flattered  his  whole  being,  "  for  your  time 's  come  at 
last,  and  I  'm  going  to  present  you  to  Miss  Graham." 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  Of  course,  as  there  is 
a  Miss  Graham,  I  can't  help  being  presented  to  her, 
but  I  had  almost  worked  myself  up  to  the  point  of 
wishing  there  were  none.  I  believe  I  'm  afraid." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  believe  that  at  all.  A  simple  school- 
girl like  that !  "  Mrs.  Bowen's  sense  of  humour  had 
not  the  national  acuteness.  She  liked  joking  in  men, 
but  she  did  not  know  how  to  say  funny  things  back. 
"  You  '11  see,  as  you  come  up  to  her." 


IV. 


Miss  GRAHAM  did,  indeed,  somehow  diminish  in 
the  nearer  perspective.  She  ceased  to  be  overwhelm- 
ing. When  Colville  lifted  his  eyes  from  bowing 
before  her  he  perceived  that  she  was  neither  so  very 
tall  nor  so  very  large,  but  possessed  merely  a  gene- 
rous amplitude  of  womanhood.  But  she  was  even 
more  beautiful,  with  a  sweet  and  youthful  radiance 
of  look  that  was  very  winning.  If  she  had  ceased  to 
be  the  goddess  she  looked  across  the  length  of  the 
salon,  she  had  gained  much  by  becoming  an  ex- 
tremely lovely  young  girl ;  and  her  teeth,  when  she 
spoke,  showed  a  fascinating  little  irregularity  that 
gave  her  the  last  charm. 

Mrs.  Bowen  glided  away  with  the  young  clergy- 
man, but  Effie  remained  at  Miss  Graham's  side,  and 
seemed  to  have  hold  of  the  left  hand  which  the  girl 
let  hang  carelessly  behind  her  in  the  volume  of 
her  robe.  The  child's  face  expressed  an  adoration 
of  Miss  Graham  far  beyond  her  allegiance  to  her 
mother. 

"  I  began  to  doubt  whether  Mrs.  Bowen  was  going 
to  bring  you  at  all,"  she  said  frankly,  with  an 


40  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

innocent,  nervous  laugh,  which  made  favour  for  her 
with  Colville.  "  She  promised  it  early  in  the  even- 
ing." 

"She  has  used  me  much  worse,  Miss  Graham," 
said  Colville.  "  She  has  kept  me  waiting  from  the 
beginning  of  time.  So  that  I  have  grown  grey  on 
my  way  up  to  you,"  he  added,  by  an  inspiration. 
"  I  was  a  comparatively  young  man  when  Mrs.  Bowen 
first  told  me  she  was  going  to  introduce  me." 

"  Oh,  how  good  /"  said  Miss  Graham  joyously. 
And  her  companion,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
permitted  herself  a  polite  little  titter.  She  had  made 
a  discovery  :  she  had  discovered  that  Mr.  Colville 
was  droll, 

"  I  'm  very  glad  you  like  it,"  he  said,  with  a  gravity 
that  did  not  deceive  them. 

"  Oh  yes,"  sighed  Miss  Graham,  with  generous 
ardour.  "  Who  but  an  American  could  say  just  such 
things  1  There 's  the  loveliest  old  lady  here  in 
Florence,  who's  lived  here  thirty  years,  and  she's 
always  going  back  and  never  getting  back,  and  she 's 
so  homesick  she  doesn't  know  what  to  do,  and  she 
always  says  that  Americans  may  not  be  better  than 
other  people,  but  they  are  different" 

"  That 's  very  pretty.  They  're  different  in  every- 
thing but  thinking  themselves  better.  Their  native 
modesty  prevents  that." 

"  I  don't  exactly  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Miss 
Graham,  after  a  little  hesitation. 

"  Well,"  returned  Colville,  "  I  haven't  thought  it 
out  very  clearly  myself  yet.  I  may  mean  that  the 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  41 

Americans  differ  from  other  people  in  not  thinking 
well  of  themselves,  or  they  may  differ  from  them  in 
not  thinking  well  enough.  But  what  I  said  had  a 
very  epigrammatic  sound,  and  I  prefer  not  to  investi- 
gate it  too  closely." 

This  made  Miss  Graham  and  Miss  Effie  both  cry 
out  "  Oh  !"  in  delighted  doubt  of  his  intention.  They 
both  insensibly  drifted  a  little  nearer  to  him. 

"  There  was  a  French  lady  said  to  me  at  the  table- 
(Thote  this  evening  that  she  knew  I  was  an  American, 
because  the  Americans  always  strike  the  key  of  per- 
sonality." He  practised  these  economies  of  material 
in  conversation  quite  recklessly,  and  often  made  the 
same  incident  or  suggestion  do  duty  round  a  whole 
company. 

"  Ah,  I  don't  believe  that,"  said  Miss  Graham. 

"  Believe  what  1" 

11  That  the  Americans  always  talk  about  them- 
selves." 

"  I  'm  not  sure  she  meant  that.  You  never  can 
tell  what  a  person  means  by  what  he  says — or  she" 

"How  shocking  !" 

"  Perhaps  the  French  lady  meant  that  we  always 
talk  about  other  people.  That 's  in  the  key  of  per- 
sonality too." 

"-But  I  don't  believe  we  do,"  said  Miss  Graham. 
"  At  any  rate,  she  was  talking  about  us,  then." 

"  Oh,  she  accounted  for  that  by  saying  there  was 
a  large  American  colony  in  Paris,  who  had  corrupted 
the  French,  and  taught  them  our  pernicious  habit  of 
introspection." 


42  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  Do  you  think  we  're  very  introspective  1 " 

"Do  youl" 

"  I  know  I  'm  not.  I  hardly  ever  think  about 
myself  at  all.  At  any  rate,  not  till  it's  too  late. 
That 's  the  great  trouble.  I  wish  I  could.  But  I  'm 
always  studying  other  people.  They're  so  much 
more  interesting." 

"  Perhaps  if  you  knew  yourself  better  you  wouldn't 
think  so,"  suggested  Colville. 

"  Yes,  I  know  they  are.  I  don't  think  any  young 
person  can  be  interesting." 

"  Then  what  becomes  of  all  the  novels  ?  They  're 
full  of  young  persons." 

"  They  're  ridiculous.  If  I  were  going  to  write  a 
novel,  I  should  take  an  old  person  for  a  hero — thirty- 
five  or  forty.  She  looked  at  Colville,  and  blushing 
a  little,  hastened  to  add,  "  I  don't  believe  that  they 
begin  to  be  interesting  much  before  that  time.  Such 
flat  things  as  young  men  are  always  saying  !  Don't 
you  remember  that  passage  somewhere  in  Heine's 
Pictures  of  Travel,  where  he  sees  the  hand  of  a  lady 
coming  out  from  under  her  mantle,  when  she  's  con- 
fessing in  a  church,  and  he  knows  that  it 's  the  hand 
of  a  young  person  who  has  enjoyed  nothing  and  suf- 
fered nothing,  it 's  so  smooth  and  flower-like  1  After 
I  read  that  I  hated  the  look  of  my  hands — I  was 
only  sixteen,  and  it  seemed  as  if  I  had  had  no  more 
experience  than  a  child.  Oh,  I  like  people  to  bo 
through  something.  Don't  you  1" 

"  Well,  yes,  I  suppose  I  do.     Other  people." 

"  No  ;  but  don't  you  like  it  for  yourself  V9 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  43 

"  I  can't  tell ;  I  haven't  been  through  anything 
worth  speaking  of  yet." 

Miss  Graham  looked  at  him  dubiously,  but 
pursued  with  ardour  :  "  Why,  just  getting  back  to 
Florence,  after  not  having  been  here  for  so  long — 
I  should  think  it  would  be  so  romantic.  Oh  dear ! 
I  wish  I  were  here  for  the  second  time." 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  wouldn't  like  it  so  well,"  said 
Colville.  "I  wish  I  were  here  for  the  first  time. 
There 's  nothing  like  the  first  time  in  everything." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so?" 

"Well,  there's  nothing  like  the  first  time  in 
Florence." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  imagine  it.  I  should  think  that  re- 
calling the  old  emotions  would  be  perfectly  fascinat- 
ing." 

"  Yes,  if  they  'd  come  when  you  do  call  them. 
But  they  're  as  contrary-minded  as  spirits  from  the 
vasty  deep.  I  Ve  been  shouting  around  here  for  my 
old  emotions  all  day,  and  I  haven't  had  a  responsive 
squeak." 

• "  Oh  !"  cried  Miss  Graham,  staring  full-eyed  at 
him.  "  How  delightful  !"  Erne  Bowen  turned 
away  her  pretty  little  head  and  laughed,  as  if  it 
might  not  be  quite  kind  to  laugh  at  a  person's  joke 
to  his  face. 

Stimulated  by  their  appreciation,  Colville  went  on 
with  more  nonsense.  "  No  ;  the  only  way  to  get  at 
your  old  emotions  in  regard  to  Florence  is  to  borrow 
them  from  somebody  who's  having  them  fresh. 
What  do  you  think  about  Florence,  Miss  Graham  ?" 


44  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  I  ?     I  Ve  been  here  two  months." 

"Then  it's  too  late?" 

"  No,  I  don't  know  that  it  is.  I  keep  feeling  the 
strangeness  all  the  time.  But  I  can't  tell  you.  It 's 
very  different  from  Buffalo,  I  can  assure  you." 

"  Buffalo  ?  I  can  imagine  the  difference.  And 
it's  not  altogether  to  the  disadvantage  of  Buffalo." 

"  Oh,  have  you  been  there  1"  asked  Miss  Graham, 
with  a  touching  little  eagerness.  "  Do  you  know 
anybody  in  Buffalo  ?" 

"  Some  of  the  newspaper  men  ;  and  I  pass  through 
there  once  a  year  on  my  way  to  New  York — or  used 
to.  It 's  a  lively  place. ". 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  sighed  Miss  Graham  fondly. 

"  Do  the  girls  of  Buffalo  still  come  out  at  night 
and  dance  by  the  light  of  the  moon  ?" 

"  What !" 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  said  Colville,  peering  at  her  under 
his  thoughtfully  knitted  brows,  "  you  do  belong  to 
another  era.  You  don't  remember  the  old  negro 
minstrel  song." 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Graham.  "  I  can  only  remember 
the  end  of  the  war." 

"  How  divinely  young  !"  said  Colville.  "  Well," 
he  added,  "I  wish  that  French  lady  could  have 
overheard  us,  Miss  Graham.  I  think  she  would 
have  changed  her  mind  about  Americans  striking 
the  note  of  personality  in  their  talk." 

"  Oh  !"  exclaimed  the  girl  reproachfully,  after  a 
moment  of  swift  reflection  and  recognition,  "  I  don't 
see  how  you  could  let  me  do  it !  You  don't  suppose 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  45 

that  I  should  have  talked  so  with  every  one  ?  It 
was  because  you  were  another  American,  and  such 
an  old  friend  of  Mrs,  Bo  wen's." 

'  That  is  what  I  shall  certainly  tell  the  French 
lady  if  she  attacks  me  about  it,"  said  Colville.  He 
glanced  carelessly  toward  the  end  of  the  room,  and 
saw  the  young  clergyman  taking  leave  of  Mrs. 
Bowen  ;  all  the  rest  of  the  company  were  gone. 
"  Bless  me  !  "  he  said,  "  I  must  be  going." 

Mrs.  Bowen  had  so  swiftly  advanced  upon  him 
that  she  caught  the  last  words.  "Why?"  she  asked. 

"  Because  it 's  to-morrow,  I  suspect,  and  the  invi- 
tation was  for  one  day  only." 

"  It  was  a  season  ticket,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  with 
gay  hospitality,  '  and  it  isn't  to-morrow  for  half  an 
hour  yet.  I  can't  think  of  letting  you  go.  Come 
up  to. the  fire,  all,  and  let's  sit  down  by  it.  It's  at 
its  very  best." 

Effie  looked  a  pretty  surprise  and  a  pleasure  in 
this  girlish  burst  from  her  mother,  whose  habitual 
serenity  made  it  more  striking  in  contrast,  and  she 
forsook  Miss  Graham's  hand  and  ran  forward  and 
disposed  the  easy -chairs  comfortably  about  the 
hearth. 

Colville  and  Mrs.  Bowen  suddenly  found  them- 
selves- upon  those  terms  which  often  succeed  a  long 
separation  with  people  who  have  felt  kindly  toward 
each  other  at  a  former  meeting  and  have  parted 
friends  :  they  were  much  more  intimate  than  they 
had  supposed  themselves  to  be,  or  had  really  any 
reason  for  being. 


46  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"Which  one  of  your  guests  do  you  wish  me  to 
.offer  up,  Mrs.  Bowen  T3  he  asked,  from  the  hollow 
of  the  arm-chair,  not  too  low,  which  he  had  sunk 
into.  With  Mrs.  Bowen  in  a  higher  chair  at  his 
right  hand,  and  Miss  Graham  intent  upon  him  from 
the  sofa  on  his  left,  a  sense  of  delicious  satisfaction 
filled  him  from  head  to  foot.  "  There  isn't  one  I 
would  spare  if  you  said  the  word." 

"  And  there  isn't  one  I  want  destroyed,  I  'm  sorry 
to  say,"  answered  Mrs.  Bowen.  "  Don't  you  think 
they  were  all  very  agreeable  1" 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  agreeable  enough — agreeable  enough, 
I  suppose.  But  they  stayed  too  long.  When  I 
think  we  might  have  been  sitting  here  for  the  last 
half-hour,  if  they  ;d  only  gone  sooner,  I  find  it  pretty 
hard  to  forgive  them." 

Mrs.  Bowen  and  Miss  Graham  exchanged  glances 
above  his  head — a  glance  which  demanded,  "  Didn't 
I  tell  you  ?"  for  a  glance  that  answered,  "  Oh,  he 
is  /"  Effie  Bowen's  eyes  widened  ;  she  kept  them 
fastened  upon  Colville  in  silent  worship. 

He  asked  who  were  certain  of  the  company  that  he 
'had  noticed,  and  Mrs.  Bowen  let  him  make  a  little 
fun  of  them  :  the  fun  was  very  good-natured.  He 
repeated  what  the  German  had  said  about  the 
worldly  ambition  of  American  girls ;  but  she  would 
not  allow  him  so  great  latitude  in  this.  She  said 
they  were  no  worldlier  than  other  girls.  Of  course, 
they  were  fond  of  society,  and  some  of  them  got  a 
little  spoiled.  But  they  were  in  no  danger  of  be- 
coming too  conventional. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  47 

Colville  did  not  insist.  "I  missed  the  military 
to-night,  Mrs.  Bowen,"  he  said.  "  I  thought  one 
couldn't  get  through  an  evening  in  Florence  without 
officers  ?" 

"  We  have  them  when  there  is  dancing,"  returned 
Mrs.  Bowen. 

"  Yes,  but  they  don't  know  anything  but  dancing," 
Miss  Graham  broke  in.  "  I  like  some  one  who  can 
talk  something  besides  compliments." 

"You  are  very  peculiar,  you  know,  Imogene," 
urged  Mrs.  Bowen  gently.  "  I  don't  think  our  young 
men  at  home  do  much  better  in  conversation,  if  you 
come  to  that,  though." 

"  Oh,  young  men,  yes  !  They  're  the  same  every- 
where. But  here,  even  when  they  're  away  along  in 
the  thirties,  they  think  that  girls  can  only  enjoy 
flattery.  /  should  like  a  gentleman  to  talk  to  me 
without  a  single  word  or  look  to  show  that  he 
thought  I  was  good-looking." 

"  Ah,  how  could  he  1 "  Colville  insinuated,  and 
the  young  girl  coloured. 

"I  mean,  if  I  were  pretty.  This  everlasting 
adulation  is  insulting." 

"Mr.  Morton  doesn't  flatter,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen 
thoughtfully,  turning  the  feather  screen  she  held 
at 'her  face,  now  edgewise,  now  flatwise,  toward 
Colville. 

"  Oh  no,"  owned  Miss  Graham.  "  He 's  a  clergy- 
man." 

Mrs  Bowen  addressed  herself  to  Colville.  "  You 
must  go  to  hear  him  some  day.  He  's  very  inter- 


48  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

esting,  if  you  don't  mind  his  being  rather  Low 
Church." 

Colville  was  going  to  pretend  to  an  advanced 
degree  of  ritualism ;  but  it  occurred  to  him  that  it 
might  be  a  serious  matter  to  Mrs.  Bowen,  and  he 
asked  instead  who  was  the  Rev.  Mr.  Waters. 

"Oh,  isn't  he  lovely?"  cried  Miss  Graham. 
"  There,  Mrs.  Bowen !  Mr.  Waters's  manner  is 
what  I  call  truly  complimentary.  He  always  talks 
to  you  as  if  he  expected  you  to  be  interested  in 
serious  matters,  and  as  if  you  were  his  intellectual 
equal.  And  he  's  so  happy  here  in  Florence  !  He 
gives  you  the  impression  of  feeling  every  breath  he 
breathes  here  a  privilege.  You  ought  to  hear  him 
talk  about  Savonarola,  Mr.  Colville." 

"  Well,"  said  Colville,  " I've  heard  a  great  many 
people  talk  about  Savonarola,  and  I  'm  rather  glad 
he  talked  to  me  about  American  girls." 

"  American  girls  ! "  uttered  Miss  Graham,  in  a 
little  scream.  "  Did  Mr.  Waters  talk  to  you  about 
girls? " 

"  Yes.  Why  not  ?  He  was  probably  in  love  with 
one  once." 

"Mr.  Waters  T'  cried  the  girl.  "What  non- 
sense ! " 

"  Well,  then,  with  some  old  lady.  Would  you 
like  that  better  1 " 

Miss  Graham  looked  at  Mrs.  Bowen  for  permission, 
as  it  seemed,  and  then  laughed,  but  did  not  attempt 
any  reply  to  Colville. 

"  You  find  even  that  incredible  of  such  pyramidal 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  49 

antiquity,"  he  resumed.  "Well,  it  is  hard  to  be- 
lieve. I  told  him  what  that  German  said,  and  we 
agreed  beautifully  about  another  type  of  American 
girl  which  we  said  we  preferred." 

"  Oh  !  What  could  it  be  1 "  demanded  Miss 
Graham. 

"  Ah,  it  wouldn't  be  so  easy  to  say  right  off-hand," 
answered  Colville  indolently. 

Mrs.  Bowen  put  her  hand  under  the  elbow  of  the 
arm  holding  her  screen.  "  I  don't  believe  I  should 
agree  with  you  so  well,"  she  said,  apparently  with  a 
sort  of  didactic  intention. 

They  entered  into  a  discussion  which  is  always 
fruitful  with  Americans — the  discussion  of  American 
girlhood,  and  Colville  contended  for  the  old  national 
ideal  of  girlish  liberty  as  wide  as  the  continent,  as 
fast  as  the  Mississippi.  Mrs.  Bowen  withstood  him 
with  delicate  firmness.  "Oh,"  he  said,  "you're 
Europeanised." 

"  I  certainly  prefer  the  European  plan  of  bringing 
up  girls,"  she  replied  steadfastly.  "  I  shouldn't 
think  of  letting  a  daughter  of  mine  have  the  freedom 
I  had." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  will  come  right  in  the  next 
generation,  then  ;  she  will  let  her  daughter  have  the 
freedom  she  hadn't." 

"  Not  if  I  'm  alive  to  prevent  it,"  cried  Mrs.  Bowen. 

Colville  laughed.  "  Which  plan  do  you  prefer, 
Miss  Graham  1" 

"  I  don't  think  it's  quite  the  same  now  as  it  used 
to  be,"  answered  the  girl  evasively. 
D 


50  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  Well,  then,  all  I  can  say  is  that  if  I  had  died 
before  this  chance,  I  had  lived  a  blessed  time.  I 
perceive  more  and  more  that  I  'm  obsolete.  I  'm  in 
my  dotage  ;  I  prattle  of  the  good  old  times,  and  the 
new  spirit  of  the  age  flouts  me.  "  Miss  Erne,  do  you 
prefer  the  Amer " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  her  mother  quickly. 
"  Erne  is  out  of  the  question.  It 's  time  you  were  in 
bed,  Effie." 

The  child  came  with  instant  submissiveness  and 
kissed  her  mother  good-night;  she  kissed  Miss 
Graham,  and  gave  her  hand  to  Colville.  He  held  it  a 
moment,  letting  her  pull  shyly  away  from  him,  while 
he  lolled  back  in  his  chair,  and  laughed  at  her  with 
his  sad  eyes.  "  It 's  past  the  time  /  should  be  in  bed, 
my  dear,  and  I  'm  sitting  up  merely  because  there  ;s 
nobody  to  send  me.  It 's  not  that  I  'm  really  such  a 
very  bad  boy.  Good  night.  Don't  put  me  into  a 
disagreeable  dream  ;  put  me  into  a  nice  one."  The 
child  bridled  at  the  mild  pleasantry,  and  when 
Colville  released  her  hand  she  suddenly  stooped 
forward  and  kissed  him. 

"  You  're  so  funny  !"  she  cried,  and  ran  and  escaped 
beyond  the  portiere. 

Mrs.  Bowen  stared  in  the  same  direction,  but  not 
with  severity.  "Really,  Effie  has  been  carried  a 
little  beyond  herself." 

"  Well,"  said  Colville,  "that's  one  conquest  since 
I  came  to  Florence.  And  merely  by  being  funny  ! 
When  I  was  in  Florence  before,  Mrs.  Bowen,"  he 
continued,  after  a  moment,  "  there  were  two  ladies 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  51 

here,  and  I  used  to  go  about  quite  freely  with  either 
of  them.  They  were  both  very  pretty,  and  we  were 
all  very  young.  Don't  you  think  it  was  charming  V 
Mrs.  Bowen  Coloured  a  lovely  red,  and  smiled,  but 
made  no  other  response.  "Florence  has  changed 
very -much  for  the  worse  since  that  time.  There 
used  to  be  a  pretty  flower-girl,  with  a  wide-flapping 
straw  hat,  who  flung  a  heavy  bough  full  of  roses 
into  my  lap  when  she  met  me  driving  across  the 
Carraja  bridge.  I  spent  an  hour  looking  for  that 
girl  to-day,  and  couldn't  find  her.  The  only  flower- 
girl  I  could  find  was  a  fat  one  of  fifty,  who  kept  me 
fifteen  minutes  in  Via  Tornabuoni  while  she  was 
fumbling  away  at  my  button-hole,  trying  to  poke 
three  second-hand  violets  and  a  sickly  daisy  into  it. 
Ah,  youth  !  youth  !  I  suppose  a  young  fellow  could 
have  found  that  other  flower-girl  at  a  glance ;  but 
my  old  eyes  !  No,  we  belong,  each  of  us,  to  our  own 
generation.  Mrs.  Bowen,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of 
tragedy — whether  real  or  affected,  he  did  not  well 
know  himself — in  his  hardiness,  "  what  has  become 
of  Mrs.  Pilsburyr 

"  Mrs.  Milbury,  you  mean  1 "  gasped  Mrs.  Bowen, 
in  affright  at  his  boldness. 

"  Milbury,  Bilbury,  Pilsbury — it 's  all  one,  so  long 
as  it,  isn't " 

"They're  living  in  Chicago!"  she  hastened  to 
reply,  as  if  she  were  afraid  he  was  going  to  say,  "  so 
long  as  it  isn't  Colville,"  and  she  could  not  have 
borne  that. 

Colville  clasped  his  hands  at  the  back  of  his  head 


52  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

and  looked  at  Mrs.  Bowen  with  eyes  that  let  her 
know  that  he  was  perfectly  aware  she  had  been 
telling  Miss  Graham  of  his  youthful  romance,  and 
that  he  had  now  touched  it  purposely.  "  And  you 
wouldn't,"  he  said,  as  if  that  were  quite  relevant  to 
what  they  had  been  talking  about — "  you  wouldn't 
let  Miss  Graham  go  out  walking  alone  with  a  dotard 
like  me  1 " 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen. 

Colville  got  to  his  feet  by  a  surprising  activity. 
"Good-bye,  Miss  Graham."  He  offered  his  hand 
to  her  with  burlesque  despair,  and  then  turned  to 
Mrs.  Bowen.  "Thank  you  for  such  a  pleasant 
evening  !  What  was  your  day,  did  you  say  1 " 

"  Oh,  any  day ! "  said  Mrs.  Bowen  cordially, 
giving  her  hand. 

"  Do  you  know  whom  you  look  like  1 "  he  asked, 
holding  it. 

"  No." 

"  Lina  Kidgely." 

The  ladies  stirred  softly  in  their  draperies  after  he 
was  gone.  They  turned  and  faced  the  hearth,  where 
a  log  burned  in  a  bed  of  hot  ashes,  softly  purring 
and  ticking  to  itself,  and  whilst  they  stood  pressing 
their  hands  against  the  warm  fronts  of  their  dresses, 
as  the  fashion  of  women  is  before  a  fire,  the  clock  on 
the  mantel  began  to  strike  twelve. 

"  Was  that  her  name  ? "  asked  Miss  Graham, 
when  the  clock  had  had  its  say.  "  Lina  Ridgely  ?" 

"  No  ;  that  was  mij  name,"  answered  Mrs. 
Bowen. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  53 

"  Oh  yes  ! "  murmured  the  young  girl  apologeti- 
cally. • 

"  She  led  him  on  ;  she  certainly  encouraged  him. 
It  was  shocking.  He  was  quite  wild  about  it." 

"  She  must  have  been  a  cruel  girl.  How  could  he 
speak  of  it  so  lightly  V 

"  It  was  best  to  speak  of  it,  and  have  done  with 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen.  "  He  knew  that  I  must  have 
been  telling  you  something  about  it." 

"  Yes.  How  bold  it  was  !  A  young  man  couldn't 
have  done  it !  Yes,  he 's  fascinating.  But  how  old 
and  sad  he  looked,  as  he  lay  back  there  in  the 
chair !" 

"  Old  1  I  don't  think  he  looked  old.  He  looked 
sad.  Yes,  it 's  left  its  mark  on  him." 

The  log  burned  quite  through  to  its  core,  and  fell 
asunder,  a  bristling  mass  of  embers.  They  had  been 
looking  at  it  with  downcast  heads.  Now  they  lifted 
their  faces,  and  saw  the  pity  in  each  other's  eyes, 
and  the  beautiful  girl  impulsively  kissed  the  pretty 
woman  good-night. 


V. 


COLVILLE  fell  asleep  with  the  flattered  sense 
which  abounds  in  the  heart  of  a  young  man  after 
his  first  successful  evening  in  society,  but  which  can 
visit  mattirer  life  only  upon  some  such  conditions  of 
long  exile  and  return  as  had  been  realised  in  his.  The 
looks  of  these  two  charming  women  followed  him 
into  *his  dreams;  he  knew  he  must  have  pleased 
them,  the  dramatic  homage  of  the  child  was  evidence 
of  that ;  and  though  it  had  been  many  years  since 
he  had  found  it  sufficient  cause  of  happiness  to  have 
pleased  a  woman,  the  desire  to  do  so  was  by  no  means 
extinct  in  him.  The  eyes  of  the  girl  hovered  above 
him  like  stars  ;  he  felt  in  their  soft  gaze  that  he  was 
a  romance  to  her  young  heart,  and  this  made  him 
laugh;  it  also  made  him  sigh. 

He  woke  at  dawn  with  a  sharp  twinge  in  his 
shoulder,  and  he  rose  to  give  himself  the  pleasure  of 
making  his  own  fire  with  those  fagots  of  broom  and 
pine  twigs  which  he  had  enjoyed  the  night  before, 
promising  himself  to  get  back  into  bed  when  the  fire 
was  well  going,  and  sleep  late.  While  he  stood 
before  the  open  stove,  the  jangling  of  a  small  bell 

54 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  55 

outside  called  him  to  the  window,  and  he  saw  a  pro- 
cession which  had  just  issued  from  the  church  going 
to  administer  the  extreme  unction  to  some  dying 
person  across  the  piazza.  The  parish  priest  went 
first,  bearing  the  consecrated  wafer  in  its  vessel,  and 
at  his  side  an  acolyte  holding  a  yellow  silk  umbrella 
over  the  Eucharist ;  after  them  came  a  number  of 
facchini  in  white  robes  and  white  hoods  that  hid 
their  faces ;  their  tapers  burned  sallow  and  lifeless  in 
the  new  morning  light ;  the  bell  jangled  dismally. 

"They  even  die  dramatically  in  this  country," 
thought  Colville,  in  whom  the  artist  was  taken  with 
the  effectiveness  of  the  spectacle  before  his  human 
pity  was  stirred  for  the  poor  soul  who  was  passing. 
He  reproached  himself  for  that,  and  instead  of 
getting  back  to  bed,  he  dressed  and  waited  for  the 
mature  hour  which  he  had  ordered  his  breakfast  for. 
When  it  came  at  last,  picturesquely  borne  on  the 
open  hand  of  Giovanni,  steaming  coffee,  hot  milk, 
sweet  butter  in  delicate  disks,  and  two  white  eggs 
coyly  tucked  in  the  fold  of  a  napkin,  and  all  grouped 
upon  the  wide  salver,  it  brought  him  a  measure  of 
the  consolation  which  good  cheer  imparts  to  the 
ridiculous  human  heart  even  in  the  house  where 
death  is.  But  the  sad  incident  tempered  his  mind 
with  a  sort  of  pensiveness  that  lasted  throughout 
the  morning,  and  quite  till  lunch.  He  spent  the 
time  in  going  about  the  churches ;  but  the  sunshine 
which  the  day  began  with  was  x  overcast,  as  it  was 
the  day  before,  and  the  churches  were  rather  too 
dark  and  cold  in  the  afternoon.  He  went  to  Vies- 


56  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

seux's  reading-room  and  looked  over  the  English 
papers,  which  he  did  not  care  for  much;  and  he  also 
made  a  diligent  search  of  the  catalogue  for  some  book 
about  Florence  for  little  Effie  Bowen  :  he  thought  he 
would  like  to  surprise  her  mother  with  his  interest 
in  the  matter.  As  the  day  waned  toward  dark,  he 
felt  more  and  more  tempted  to  take  her  at  her  wrord, 
when  she  had  said  that  any  day  was  her  day  to  him, 
and  go  to  see  her.  If  he  had  been  a  younger  man 
he  would  have  anxiously  considered  this  indulgence 
and  denied  himself,  but  after  forty  a  man  denies 
himself  no  reasonable  and  harmless  indulgence ;  he 
has  learned  by  that  time  that  it  is  a  pity  and  a  folly 
to  do  so. 

Colville  found  Mrs.  Bowen's  room  half  full  of 
arriving  and  departing  visitors,  and  then  he  remem- 
bered that  it  was  this  day  she  had  named  to  him  on 
the  Ponte  Vecchio,  and  when  Miss  Graham  thanked 
him  for  coming  his  first  Thursday,  he  made  a  merit 
of  not  having  forgotten  it,  and  said  he  was  going  to 
come  every  Thursday  during  the  winter.  Miss 
Graham  drew  him  a  cup  of  tea  from  the  Kussian 
samovar  which  replaces  in  some  Florentine  houses 
the  tea-pot  of  Occidental  civilisation,  and  Colville 
smiled  upon  it  and  Upon  her,  bending  over  the 
brazen  urn  with  a  flower-like  tilt  of  her  beautiful 
head.  She  wore  an  aesthetic  dress  of  creamy  camel's- 
hair,  whose  colour -pleased  the  eye  as  its  softness 
would  have  flattered  the  touch.  - 

"  What  a  very  Tourgu6nefnsh  effect  the  samovar 
gives ! "  he  said,  taking  a  biscuit  from  the  basket 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  57 

Effie  Bowen  brought  him,  shrinking  with  redoubled 
shyness  from  the  eyebrows  which  he  arched  at  her. 
"I  wonder  you  can  keep  from  calling  me  Fedor 
Colvillitch.  Where  is  your  mother,  Effie  Bowen- 
ovna  1 "  he  asked  of  the  child,  with  a  temptation  to 
say  Imogene  Grahamovna. 

They  both  looked  mystified,  but  Miss  Graham 
said,  "  I  'm  sorry  to  say  you  won't  see  Mrs.  Bowen 
to-day.  She  has  a  very  bad  headache,  and  has  left 
Effie  and  me  to  receive.  We  feel  very  incompetent, 
but  she  says  it  will  do  us  good." 

There  were  some  people  there  of  the  night  before, 
and  Colville  had  to  talk  to  them.  One  of  the  ladies 
asked  him  if  he  had  met  the  Inglehart  boys  as  he 
came  in. 

"  The  Inglehart  boys  ?  No.  What  are  the  Ingle- 
hart  boys  ? " 

"  They  were  here  all  last  winter,  and  they  Ve  just 
got  back.  It 's  rather  exciting  for  Florence."  She 
gave  him  a  rapid  sketch  of  that  interesting  exodus 
of  a  score  of  young  painters  from  the  art  school 
at  Munich,  under  the  head  of  the  singular  and 
fascinating  genius  by  whose  name  they  became 
known.  "They  had  their  own  school  for  a  while  in 
Munich,  and  then  they  all  came  down  into  Italy  in  a 
body.  They  had  their  studio  things  with  them,  and 
they  travelled  third  class,  and  they  made  the  great- 
est excitement  everywhere,  and  had  the  greatest  fun. 
They  were  a  great  sensation  in  Florence.  They 
went  everywhere,  and  were  such  favourites.  I 
hope  they  are  going  to  stay." 


58  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  I  hope  so  too,"  said  Colville.  "  I  should  like  to 
see  them." 

"  Dear  me  ! "  said  the  lady,  with  a  glance  at  the 
clock.  "  It 's  five  !  I  must  be  going." 

The  other  ladies  went,  and  Colville  approached  to 
take  leave,  but  Miss  Graham  detained  him. 

"  What  is  Tourguenemsh  1 "  she  demanded. 

"The  quality  of  the  great  Russian  novelist,  Tour-' 
gue"neff,"  said  Colville,  perceiving  that  she  had  not 
heard  of  him. 

"  Oh ! " 

"You  ought  to  read  him.  The  samovar  sends 
up  its  agreeable  odour  all  through  his  books.  Read 
Lisa  if  you  want  your  heart  really  broken. 

"  I  'm  glad  you  approve  of  heart-breaks  in  books. 
So  many  people  won't  read  anything  but  cheerful 
books.  It 's  the  only  quarrel  I  have  with  Mrs. 
Bowen.  She  says  there  are  so  many  sad  things 
in  life  that  they  ought  to  be  kept  out  of  books." 

"Ah,  there  I  perceive  a  divided  duty,"  said 
Colville.  "  I  should  like  to  agree  with  both  of  you. 
But  if  Mrs.  Bowen  were  here  I  should  remind  her 
that  if  there  are  so  many  sad  things  in  life  that  is  a 
very  good  reason  for  putting  them  in  books  too." 

"  Of  course  I  shall  tell  her  what  you  said." 

"  Why,  I  don't  object  to  a  certain  degree  of  cheer- 
fulness in  books  ;  only  don't  carry  it  too  far — that 's 
all." 

This  made  the  young  girl  laugh,  and  Colville  was 
encouraged  to  go  on.  He  told  her  of  the  sight  he 
had  seen  from  his  window  at  daybreak,  and  he 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  59 

depicted  it  all  very  graphically,  and  made  her  feel 
its  pathos  perhaps  more  keenly  than  he  had  felt  it. 
"  Now,  that  little  incident  kept  with  me  all  day, 
tempering  my  .boisterous  joy  in  the  Giottos,  and 
reducing  me  to  a  decent  composure  in  the  presence 
of  the  Cimabues  ;  and  it 's  pretty  hard  to  keep  from 
laughing  at  some  of  them,  don't  you  think  ? " 

The  young  people  perceived  that  he  was  making 
fun  again ;  but  he  continued  with  an  air  of  greater 
seriousness.  "  Don't  you  see  what  a  very  good  thing 
that  was  to  begin  one's  day  with  ?  Why,  even  in 
Santa  Croce,  with  the  thermometer  ten  degrees  below 
zero  in  the  shade  of  Alfieri's  monument,  I  was  no 
gayer  than  I  should  have  been  in  a  church  at  home. 
I  suppose  Mrs.  Bowen  would  object  to  having  that 
procession  go  by  under  one's  window  in  a  book ;  but 
I  can't  really  see  how  it  would  hurt  the  reader,  or 
damp  his  spirits  permanently.  A  wholesome  re- 
action would  ensue,  such  as  you  see  now  in  me, 
whom  the  thing  happened  to  in  real  life." 

He  stirred  his  tea,  and  shook  with  an  inward 
laugh  as  he  carried  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Graham  thoughtfully,  and  she 
looked  at  him  searchingly  in  the  interval  of 
silence  that  ensued.  But  she  only  added,  "  I  wish 
it  would  get  warmer  in  the  churches.  I  Ve  seen 
hardly  anything  of  them  yet." 

"  From  the  way  I  felt  in  them  to-day,"  sighed 
Colville,  "  I  should  think  the  churches  would  begin 
to  thaw- out  about  the  middle  of  May.  But  if  one 
goes  well  wrapped  up  in  furs,  and  has  a  friend 


60  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

along  to  rouse  him  and  keep  him  walking  when  he 
is  about  to  fall  into  that  lethargy  which  precedes 
death  by  freezing,  I  think  they  may  be  visited  even 
now  with  safety.  Have  you  been  -in  Santa  Maria 
Novella  yet  !  " 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Graham,  with  a  shake  of  the 
liead  that  expressed  her  resolution  to  speak  the 
whole  truth  if  she  died  for  it,  "  not  even  in  Santa. 
Maria  Novella." 

"  What  a  wonderful  old  place  it  is !  That  curi- 
ous fa9ade,  with  the  dials  and  its  layers  of  black 
and  white  marble  soaked  golden-red  in  a  hundred 
thousand  sunsets  !  That  exquisite  grand  portal !  " 
He  gesticulated  with  the  hand  that  the  tea-cup  left 
free,  to  suggest  form  and  measurement  as  artists  do. 
"  Then  the  inside  !  The  great  Cimabue,  with  all 
that  famous  history  on  its  back — the  first  divine 
Madonna  by  the  first  divine  master,  carried  through 
the  streets  in  a  triumph  of  art  and  religion  !  Those 
frescoes  of  Ghirlandajo's  with  real  Florentine  faces 
and  figures  in  them,  and  all  lavished  upon  the  eternal 
twilight  of  that  choir — but  I  suppose  that  if  the  full 
day  were  let  in  on  them,  once,  they  would  vanish 
like  ghosts  at  cock-crow  !  You  must  be  sure  to  see 
the  Spanish  chapel;  and  the  old  cloister  itself  is  such 
a  pathetic  place.  There  's  a  boys'  school,  as  well  as 
a  military  college,  in  the  suppressed  convent  now, 
and  the  colonnades  were  full  of  boys  running  and 
screaming  and  laughing  and  making  a  joyful  racket ; 
it  was  so  much  more  sorrowful  than  silence  would 
have  been  there.  One  of  the  little  scamps  came  up 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  61 

to  me,  and  the  young  monk  that  was  showing  mo 
round,  and  bobbed  us  a  mocking  bow  and  bobbed  his 
hat  off ;  then  they  all  burst  out  laughing  again  and 
raced  away,  and  the  monk  looked  after  them  and  said, 
so  sweetly  and  wearily,  '  They  're  at  their  diversions  : 
we  must  have  patience.'  There  are  only  twelve 
monks  left  there ;  all  the  rest  are  scattered  and 
gone."  He  gave  his  cup  to  Miss  Graham  for  more  tea. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  she  asked,  drawing  it  from 
the  samovar,  "  that  it  is  very  sad  having  the  con- 
vents suppressed  ? " 

"  It  was  very  sad  having  slavery  abolished — for 
some  people,"  suggested  Colville ;  he  felt  the  unfair- 
ness of  the  point  he  had  made. 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Miss  Graham. 

Colville  stood  stirring  his  second  cup  of  tea,  when 
the  portikre  parted,  and  showed  Mrs.  Bowen  wistfully 
pausing  on  the  threshold.  Her  face  was  pale,  but 
she  looked  extremely  pretty  there. 

"  Ah,  come  inr  Mrs.  Bowen  !  "  he  called  gaily  to 
her.  "  I  won't  give  you  away  to  the  other  people. 
A  cuj)  of  tea  will  do  you  good." 

"  Oh,  I  'm  a  great  deal  better,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen, 
coming  forward  to  give  him  her  hand.  "  I  heard 
your  voice,  and  I  couldn't  resist  looking  in." 

"  That  was  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Colville  grate- 
fully :  and  her  eyes  met  his  in  a  glance  that  flushed 
her  face  a  deep  red.  "  You  find  me  here — /  don't 
know  why ! — in  my  character  of  old  family  friend, 
doing  my  best  to  make  life  a  burden  to  the  young 
ladies." 


62  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  I  wish  you  would  stay  to  a  family  dinner  with 
us,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  and  Miss  Graham  brightened 
in  cordial  support  of  the  hospitality.  "  Why  can't 
you?" 

"I  don't  know,  unless  it's  because  I'm  a  humane 
person,  and  have  some  consideration  for  your  head- 
ache." 

"Oh,  that's  all  gone,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen.  "It 
was  one  of  those  convenient  headaches — if  you  ever 
had  them,  you'd  know — that  go  off  at  sunset." 

"  But  you'd  have  another  to-morrow." 

"  No,  I  'm  safe  for  a  whole  fortnight  from  another." 
•  "Then  you  leave  me  without  an  excuse,  and  I 
was  just  wishing  I  had  none,"  said  Colville. 

After  dinner  Mrs.  Bowen  sent  Effie  to  bed  early 
to  make  up  for  the  late  hours  of  the  night  before, 
but  she  sat  before  the  fire  with  Miss  Graham  rather 
late,  talking  Colville  over,  when  he  was  gone. 

"  He 's  very  puzzling  to  me,"  said  Miss  Graham. 
"  Sometimes  you  think  he 's  nothing  but  an  old 
cynic,  from  his  talk,  and  then  something  so  sweet 
and  fresh  comes  out  that  you  don't  know  what  to 
do.  Don't  you  think  he  has  really  a  very  poetical 
mind,  and  that  he 's  putting  all  the  rest  on  1 " 

"  I  think  he  likes  to  make  little  effects,"  said  Mrs. 
Bowen  judiciously.  "  He  always  did,  rather." 

"  Why,  was  he  like  this  when  he  was  young  1 " 

"  I  don't  consider  him  very  old  now." 

"  No,  of  course  not.  I  meant  when  you  knew 
him  before."  Miss  Graham  had  some  needlework 
in  her  hand ;  Mrs.  Bowen,  who  never  even  pretended 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  63 

to  work  at  that  kind  of  thing,  had  nothing  in  hers 
but  the  feather  screen. 

"He  is  old,  compared  with  yon,  Imogene ;  but 
you  '11  find,  as  you  live  along,  that  your  contempor- 
aries are  always  young.  Mr.  Colville  is  very  much 
improved.  He  used  to  be  painfully  shy,  but  he  put 
on  a  bold  front,  and  now  the  bold  front  seems  to 
have  become  a  second  nature  with  him." 

"  I  like  it,"  said  Miss  Graham,  to  her  needle. 

"  Yes ;  but  I  suspect  he 's  still  shy,  at  heart.  He 
used  to  be  very  sentimental,  and  was  always  talking 
Ruskin.  I  think  if  he  hadn't  talked  Ruskin  so 
much,  Jenny  Milbury  might  have  treated  him  better. 
It  was  very  priggish  in  him." 

"Oh,  I  can't  imagine  Mr.  Colville's  being  prig- 
gish ! " 

"  He 's  very  much  improved.  He  used  to  be 
quite  a  sloven  in  his  dress;  you  know  how  very 
slovenly  most  American  gentlemen  are  in  their 
dress,  at  any  rate.  I  think  that  influenced  her 
against  him  too." 

"  He  isn't  slovenly  now,"  suggested  Miss  Graham. 

"  Oh  no ;  he 's  quite  swell,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen, 
depriving  the  adjective  of  slanginess  by  the  refine- 
ment of  her 'tone. 

''Well,"  said  Miss  Graham,  "I  don't  see  how 
you  could  have  endured  her  after  that.  It  was 
atrocious." 

"  It  was  better  for  her  to  break  with  him,  if  she 
found  out  she  didn't  love  him,  than  to  marry  him. 
That,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  with  a  depth  of  feeling 


64  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

uncommon  for  her,  "would  have  been  a  thousand 
times  worse." 

"  Yes,  but  she  ought  to  have  found  out  before  she 
led  him  on  so  far." 

"  Sometimes  girls  can't.  They  don't  know  them- 
selves; they  think  they're  in  love  when  they're 
not.  She  was  very  impulsive,  and  of  course  she 
was  flattered  by  it ;  he  was  so  intellectual.  But  at 
last  she  found  that  she  couldn't  bear  it,  and  she  had 
to  tell  him  so." 

"Did  she  ever  say  why  she  didn't  love  him  ?" 

"  No ;  I  don't  suppose  she  could.  The  only  thing 
I  remember  her  saying  was  that  he  was  *  too  much 
of  a  mixture.'" 

"  What  did  she  mean  by  that  1 " 

"I  don't  know  exactly." 

"  Do  you  think  he 's  insincere  1 " 

"  Oh  no.  Perhaps  she  meant  that  he  wasn't  single- 
minded." 

"Fickle?" 

"  No.     He  certainly  wasn't  that  in  her  case." 

"Undecided]" 

"  He  was  decided  enough  with  her — at  last." 

Imogene  dropped  the  hopeless  quest,  "  How  can  a 
man  ever  stand  such  a  thing  ? "  she  sighed. 

"  He  stood  it  very  nobly.  That  was  the  best 
thing  about  it ;  he  took  it  in  the  most  delicate  way. 
She  showed  me  his  letter.  There  wasn't  a  word  or 
a  hint  of  reproach  in  it ;  he  seemed  to  be  anxious 
about  nothing  but  her  feeling  badly  for  him.  Of 
course  he  couldn't  help  showing  that  he  was  morti- 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  65 

fied  for  having  pursued  her  with  attentions  that 
were  disagreeable  to  her ;  but  that  was  delicate  too. 
Yes,  it  was  a  very  large-minded  letter," 

"It  was  shocking  in  her  to  show  it." 

"  It  wasn't  very  nice  But  it  was  a  letter  that 
any  girl  might  have  been  proud  to  show." 

"  Oh,  she  couldn't  have  done  it  to  gratify  her 
vanity  ! " 

"  Girls  are  very  queer,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen, 
as  if  the  fact  were  an  abstraction.  She  mused  upon 
the  flat  of  her  screen,  while  Miss  Graham  plied  her 
needle  in  silence. 

The  latter  spoke  first.  "  Do  you  think  he  was 
very  much  broken  by  it  1 " 

"You  never  can  tell.  He  went  out  west  then, 
and  there  he  has  stayed  ever  since.  I  suppose  his 
life  would  have  been  very  different  if  nothing  of  the 
kind  had  happened.  He  had  a  great  deal  of  talent. 
I  always  thought  I  should  hear  of  him  in  some 
way." 

"  Well,  it  was  a  heartless,  shameless  thing !  I 
don't  see  how  you  can  speak  of  it  so  leniently  as 
you  do,  Mrs.  Bowen.  It  makes  all  sorts  of  coquetry 
and  flirtation  more  detestable  to  me  than  ever. 
Why,  it  has  ruined  his  life  1 " 

"Oh,  he  was  young  enough  then  to  outlive  it. 
After  all,  they  were  a  boy  and  girl." 

"  A  boy  and  girl  !     How  old  were  they  1 " 

"He  must  have  been  twenty-three  or  four,  and 
she  was  twenty." 

"  My  age  !     Do  you  call  that  being  a  girl  1 " 

E 


66  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  She  was  old  enough  to  know  what  she  was 
about,"  said  Mrs.  Bo  wen  justly. 

Imogene  fell  back  in  her  chair,  drawing  out  her 
needle  the  full  length  of  its  thread,  and  then  letting 
her  hand  fall.  "I  don't  know.  It  seems  as  if  I 
never  should  be  grown  up,  or  anything  but  a 
child.  Yes,  when  I  think  of  the  way  young  men 
talk,  they  do  seem  boys.  Why  can't  they  talk  Jike 
Mr.  Colville  ?  I  wish  I  could  talk  like  him.  It 
makes  you  forget  how  old  and  plain  he  is." 

She  remained  with  her  eyelids  dropped  in  an  absent 
survey  of  her  sewing,  while  Mrs.  Bowen  regarded 
her  with  a  look  of  vexation,  impatience,  resentment, 
on  the  last  refinement  of  these  emotions,  which  she 
banished  from  her  face  before  Miss  Graham  looked 
up  and  said,  with  a  smile  :  "  How  funny  it  is  to  see 
Effie's  infatuation  with  him  !  She  can't  take  her 
eyes  off  him  for  a  moment,  and  she  follows  him 
round  the  room  so  as  not  to  lose  a  word  he  is  say- 
ing. It  was  heroic  of  her  to  go  to  bed  without  a 
murmur  before  he  left  to-night." 

"  Yes,  she  sees  that  he  is  good,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen. 

"  Oh,  she  sees  that  he 's  something  very  much 
more.  Mr.  Waters  is  good.1' 

Miss  Graham  had  the  best  of  the  argument,  and 
so  Mrs.  Bowen  did  not  reply. 

"  I  feel,"  continued  the  young  girl,  "as  if  it  were 
almost  a  shame  to  have  asked  him  to  go  to  that  silly 
dancing  party  with  us.  It  seems  as  if  we  didn't 
appreciate  him.  I  think  we  ought  to  have  kept  him 
for  high  aesthetic  occasions  and  historical  researches." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  .  67 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  Mr.  Colville  was  very  deeply 
offended  at  being  asked  to  go  with  us." 

"  No,"  said  Imogene,  with  another  sigh,  "  he 
didn't  seem  so.  I  suppose  there 's  always  an  under- 
current of  sadness— of  tragedy— in  everything  for 
him." 

"  I  don't  suppose  anything  of  the  kind,"  cried 
Mrs.  Boweu  gaily.  "  He  's  had  time  enough  to  get 
over  it." 

"  Do  people  ever  get  over  such  things  1  " 

«  Yes— men." 

"  It  must  be  because  he  was  young,  as  you  say. 
But  if  it  had  happened  now  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  couldnt  happen  now.  He 's  altogether  too 
cool  and  calculating." 

"  Do  you  think  he  's  cool  and  calculating  1 " 

"  No.  He 's  too  old  for  a  broken  heart — a  new 
one." 

"Mrs.  Bowen,"  demanded  the  girl  solemnly, 
"  could  you  forgive  yourself  for  such  a  thing  if  you 
had  done  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  perfectly  well,  if  I  wasn't  in  love  with 
him." 

"  But  if  you  'd  made  him  think  you  were  1 "  pur- 
sued the  girl  breathlessly. 

"  If  I  were  a  flirt— yes." 

"  /  couldn't/'  said  Imogene,  with  tragic  depth. 

"  Oh,  be  done  with  your  intensities,  and  go  to 
bed,  Imogene,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  giving  her  a  play- 
ful push. 


VI. 


IT  was  so  long  since  Colville  had  been  at  a  dancing 
party  that  Mrs.  Bo  wen's  offer  to  take  him  to  Madame 
Uccelli's  had  first  struck  his  sense  of  the  ludicrous. 
Then  it  had  begun  to  natter  him ;  it  implied  that  he 
was  still  young  enough  to  dance  if  he  would,  though 
he  had  stipulated  that  they  were  not  to  expect  any- 
thing of  the  kind  from  him.  He  liked  also  the 
notion  of  being  seen  and  accepted  in  Florentine 
society  as  the  old  friend  of  Mrs.  Bo  wen's,  for  he  had 
not  been  long  in  discovering  that  her  position  in 
Florence  was,  among  the  foreign  residents,  rather 
authoritative.  She  was  one  of  the  very  few  Ameri- 
cans who  were  asked  to  Italian  houses,  and  Italian 
houses  lying  even  beyond  the  neutral  ground  of 
English-speaking  intermarriages.  She  was  not,  of 
course,  asked  to  the  great  Princess  Strozzi  ball, 
where  the  Florentine  nobility  appeared  in  the  medi- 
aeval pomp — the  veritable  costumes — of  their  ances- 
tors ;  only  a  rich  American  banking  family  went, 
and  their  distinction  was  spoken  of  under  the 
breath ;  but  any  glory  short  of  this  was  within  Mrs. 
BowenV  reach.  So  an  old  lady  who  possessed  her- 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  69 

self  of  Colville  the  night  before  had  told  him,  cele- 
brating Mrs.  Bowen  at  length,  and  boasting  of  her 
acceptance  among  the  best  English  residents,  who, 
next  after  the  natives,  seem  to  constitute  the  social 
ambition  of  Americans  living  in  Italian  cities. 

It  interested  him  to  find  that  some  geographical 
distinctions  which  are  fading  at  home  had  quite  dis- 
appeared in  Florence.  When  he  was  there  before, 
people  from  quite  small  towns  in  the  East  had  made 
pretty  Lina  Ridgely  and  her  friend  feel  the  disad- 
vantage of  having  come  from  the  Western  side  of  an 
imaginary  line ;  he  had  himself  been  at  the  pains 
always  to  let  people  know,  at  the  American  water- 
ing-places where  he  spent  his  vacations,  that  though 
presently  from  Des  Vaches,  Indiana,  he  was  really 
born  in  Rhode  Island ;  but  in  Florence  it  was  not 
at  all  necessary.  He  found  in  Mrs.  Bowen's  house 
people  from  Denver,  Chicago,  St.  Louis,  Boston, 
New  York,  and  Baltimore,  all  meeting  as  of  appar- 
ently the  same  civilisation,  and  whether  Mrs. 
Bowen's  own  origin  was,  like  that  of  the  Etruscan 
cities,  lost  in  the  mists  of  antiquity,  or  whether  she 
had  sufficiently  atoned  for  the  error  of  her  birth  by 
subsequent  residence  in  the  national  capital  and 
prolonged  sojourn  in  New  York,  it  seemed  certainly 
not  to  be  remembered  against  her  among  her  Eastern 
acquaintance.  The  time  had  been  when  the  fact 
that  Miss  Graham  came  from  Buffalo  would  have 
.gone  far  to  class  her  with  the  animal  from  which 
her  native  city  had  taken  its  name ;  but  now  it 
made  no  difference,  unless  it  was  a  difference  in  her 


70  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

favour.  The  English  spoke  with  the  same  vague 
respect  of  Buffalo  and  of  Philadelphia;  and  to  a 
family  of  real  Bostonians  Colville  had  the  courage  to 
say  simply  that  he  lived  in  Des  Vaches,  and  not  to 
seek  to  palliate  the  truth  in  any  sort.  If  he  wished 
to  prevaricate  at  all,  it  was  rather  to  attribute  him- 
self to  Mrs.  Bowen's  city  in  Ohio. 

She  and  Miss  Graham  called  for  him  with  her 
carriage  the  next  night,  when  it  was  time  to  go  to 
Madame  Uccelli's. 

"  This  gives  me  a  very  patronised  and  effeminate 
feeling,"  said  Colville,  getting  into  the  odorous  dark 
of  the  carriage,  and  settling  himself  upon  the  front 
seat  with  a  skill  inspired  by  his  anxiety  not  to  tear 
any  of  the  silken  spreading  white  wraps  that  inun- 
dated the  whole  interior.  "  Being  come  for  by 
ladies  ! "  They  both  gave  some  nervous  joyful 
laughs,  as  they  found  his  hand  in  the  obscurity, 
and  left  the  sense  of  a  gloved  pressure  upon  it. 
"Is  this  the  way  you  used  to  do  in  Vesprucius, 
Mrs.  Bowen  ? " 

"  Oh  no,  indeed  ! "  she  answered.  "  The  young 
gentlemen  used  to  find  out  whether  I  was  going, 
and  came  for  me  with  a  hack,  and  generally,  if  the 
weather  was  good,  we  walked  home." 

"  That 's  the  way  we  still  do  in  Des  Vaches. 
Sometimes,  as  a  tremendous  joke,  the  ladies  come 
for  us  in  leap-year.  How  do  you  go  to  balls  in 
Buffalo,  Miss  Graham?  Or,  no;  I  withdraw  the 
embarrassing  question."  Some  gleams  from  the 
street  lamps,  as  they  drove  along,  struck  in  through 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  71 

the  carriage  windows,  and  flitted  over  the  ladies' 
faces  and  were  gone  again.  "  Ah !  this  is  very 
trying.  Couldn't  you  stop  him  at  the  next  corner, 
and  let  me  see  how  radiant  you  ladies  really  are  ] 
I  may  be  in  very  great  danger ;  I  ;d  like  to  know 
just  how  much." 

"  It  wouldn't  be  of  any  use,"  cried  the  young  girl 
gaily.  "  We  're  all  wrapped  up,  and  you  couldn't 
form  any  idea  of  us.  You  must  wait,  and  let  us 
burst  upon  you  when  we  come  out  of  the  dressing- 
room  at  Madame  Uccelli's." 

"But  then  it  may  be  too  late,"  he  urged.  "  Is  it 
very  far  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen.  "  It 's  ridiculously  far. 
It's  outside  the  Roman  Gate.  I  don't  see  why 
people  live  at  that  distance." 

"  In  order  to  give  the  friends  you  bring  the  more 
pleasure  of  your  company,  Mrs.  Bowen." 

"  Ah  !  that 's  very  well.     But  you  're  not  logical." 

"No,"  said  Colville ;  "you  can't  be  logical  and 
complimentary  at  the  same  time.  It 's  too  much  to 
ask.  How  delicious  your  flowers  are  !  "  The  ladies 
each  had  a  bouquet  in  her  hand,  which  she  was 
holding  in  addition  to  her  fan,  the  edges  of  her 
cloak,  and  the  skirt  of  her  train. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen ;  "  we  are  so  much 
obliged  to  you  for  them." 

"Why,  I  sent  you  no  flowers,"  said  Colville, 
startled  into  untimely  earnest. 

"Didn't  you?"  triumphed  Mrs.  Bowen.  "I 
thought  gentlemen  always  sent  flowers  to  ladies 


72  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

when  they  were  going  to  a  ball  with  them.  They 
used  to,  in  Columbus." 

"  And  in  Buffalo  they  always  do,"  Miss  Graham 
added. 

"  Ah !  they  don't  in  Des  Vaches,"  said  Colville, 
They  tried  to  mystify  him  further  about  the 
bouquets ;  they  succeeded  in  being  very  gay,  and 
in  making  themselves  laugh  a  great  deal.  Mrs. 
Bowen  was  even  livelier  than  the  young  girl. 

Her  carriage  was  one  of  the  few  private  equipages 
that  drove  up  to  Madame  Uccelli's  door  ;  most  people 
had  not  even  come  in  a  remise,  but,  after  the  simple 
Florentine  fashion,  had  taken  the  little  cabs,  which 
stretched  in  a  long  line  up  and  down  the  way ;  the 
horses  had  let  their  weary  heads  drop,  and  were 
easing  their  broken  knees  by  extending  their  fore- 
legs while  they  drowsed ;  the  drivers,  huddled  in 
their  great-coats,  had  assembled  around  the  door- 
way to  see  the  guests  alight,  with  that  amiable, 
unenvious  interest  of  the  Italians  in  the  pleasure  of 
others.  The  deep  sky  glittered  with  stars ;  in  the 
corner  of  the  next  villa  garden  the  black  plumes 
of  some  cypresses,  blotted  out  their  space  among 
them. 

"  Isn't  it  Florentine  1 "  demanded  Mrs.  Bowen, 
giving  the  hand  which  Colville  offered  in  helping 
her  out  of  the  carriage  a  little  vivid  pressure,  full  of 
reminiscence  and  confident  sympathy.  A  flush  of 
youth  warmed  his  heart;  he  did  not  quail  even 
when  the  porter  of  the  villa  intervened  between 
her  and  her  coachman,  whom  she  was  telling  when 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  73 

to  come  back,  and  said  that  the  carriages  were 
ordered  for  three  o'clock. 

"Did  you  ever  sit  up  so  late  as  that  in  Des 
Vaches  1 "  asked  Miss  Graham  mischievously. 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  was  editor  of  a  morning  paper,"  he 
explained.  But  he  did  not  like  the  imputation  of 
her  question. 

Madame  Uccelli  accepted  liim  most  hospitably 
among  her  guests  when  he  was  presented.  She  was 
an  American  who  had  returned  with  her  Italian 
husband  to  Italy,  and  had  long  survived  him  in  the 
villa  which  he  had  built  with  her  money.  Such 
people  grow  very  queer  with  the  lapse  of  time. 
Madame  Uccelli's  character  remained  inalienably 
American,  but  her  manners  and  customs  had  be- 
come largely  Italian ;  without  having  learned  the 
language  thoroughly,  she  spoke  it  very  fluently,  and 
its  idioms  marked  her  Philadelphia  English.  Her 
house  was  a  menagerie  of  all  the  nationalities ;  she 
was  liked  in  Italian  society,  and  there  were  many 
Italians ;  English-speaking  Russians  abounded  ;  there 
were  many  genuine  English,  Germans,  Scandinavians, 
Protestant  Irish,  American  Catholics,  and  then 
Americans  of  all  kinds.  There  was  a  superstition  of 
her  exclusiveness  among  her  compatriots,  but  one 
really  met  every  one  there  sooner  or  later ;  she  was 
supposed  to  be  a  convert  to  the  religion  of  her  late 
husband,  but  no  one  really  knew  what  religion  she 
was  of,  probably  not  even  Madame  Uccelli  herself. 
One  thing  you  were  sure  of  at  her  house,  and  that 
was  a  substantial  supper ;  it  is  the  example  of  such 


74  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

resident  foreigners  which  has  corrupted  the  Floren- 
tines, though  many  native  families  still  hold  out 
against  it. 

The  dancing  was  just  beginning,  and  the  daughter 
of  Madame  Uccelli,  who  spoke  both  English  and 
Italian  much  better  than  her  mother,  came  forward 
and  possessed  herself  of  Miss  Graham,  after  a  polite 
feint  of  pressing  Mrs.  Bowen  to  let  her  find  a  partner 
for  her. 

Mrs.  Bowen  cooed  a  gracious  refusal,  telling 
Fanny  Uccelli  that  she  knew  very  well  that  she 
never  danced  now.  The  girl  had  not  much  time  for 
Colville ;  she  welcomed  him,  but  she  was  full  of  her 
business  of  starting  the  dance,  and  she  hurried  away 
without  asking  him  whether  she  should  introduce 
him  to  some  lady  for  the  quadrille  that  was  forming. 
Her  mother,  however,  asked  him  if  he  would  not  go 
out  and  get  himself  some  tea,  and  she  found  a  lady 
to  go  with  him  to  the  supper-room.  This  lady  had 
daughters  whom  apparently  she  wished  to  supervise 
while  they  were  dancing,  and  she  brought  Colville 
back  very  soon.  He  had  to  stand  by  the  sofa  where 
she  sat  till  Madame  Uccelli  found  him  and  intro- 
duced him  to  another  mother  of  daughters.  Later  he 
joined  a  group  formed  by  the  father  of  one  of  the 
dancers  and  the  non-dancing  husband  of  a  dancing 
wife.  Their  conversation  was  perfunctory;  they 
showed  one  another  that  they  had  no  pleasure  in  it. 

Presently  the  father  went  to  see  how  his  daughter 
looked  while  dancing ;  the  husband  had  evidently  no 
such  curiosity  concerning  his  wife;  and  Colville  went 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  75 

with  the  father,  and  looked  at  Miss  Graham.  She  was 
very  beautiful,  and  she  obeyed  the  music  as  if  it  were 
her  breath ;  her  face  was  rapt,  intense,  full  of  an  un- 
smiling delight,  which  shone  in  her  dark  eyes,  glow- 
ing like  low  stars.  Her  abandon  interested  Colville, 
and  then  awed  him ;  the  spectacle  of  that  young, 
unjaded  capacity  for  pleasure  touched  him  with  a 
profound  sense  of  loss.  Suddenly  Imogene  caught 
sight  of  him,  and  with  the  coming  of  a  second  look 
in  her  eyes  the  light  of  an  exquisite  smile  flashed 
over  her  face.  His  heart  was  in  his  throat. 

"  Your  daughter  1 "  asked  the  fond  parent  at  his 
elbow.  "  That  is  mine  yonder  in  red." 

Colville  did  not  answer,  nor  look  at  the  young 
lady  in  red.  The  dance  was  ceasing ;  the  fragments 
of  those  kaleidoscopic  radiations  were  dispersing 
themselves  ;  the  tormented  piarjo  was  silent. 

The  officer  whom  Imogene  had  danced  with 
brought  her  to  Mrs.  Bowen,  and  resigned  her  with 
the  regulation  bow,  hanging  his  head  down  before 
him  as  if  submitting  his  neck  to  the  axe.  She  put 
her  hand  in  Colville's  arm,  where  he  stood  beside 
Mrs.  Bowen.  "  Oh,  do  take  me  to  get  something  to 
eat !  " 

In  the  supper-room  she  devoured  salad  and  ices 
with  a  childish  joy  in  them.  The  place  was  jammed, 
and  she  laughed  from  her  corner  at  Colville's 
struggles  in  getting  the  things  for  her  and  bringing 
them  to  her.  While  she  was  still  in  the  midst  of  an 
ice,  the  faint  note  of  the  piano  sounded.  "  Oh, 
they  're  beginning  again.  It 's  the  Lancers  ! "  she 


76  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

said,  giving  him  the  plate  back.  She  took  his  arm 
again ;  she  almost  pulled  him  along  on  their  return. 

"  Why  don't  you  dance  ?  "  she  demanded  mock- 
ingly. 

"  I  would  if  you'd  let  me  dance  with  you." 

"Oh,  that's  impossible!  I'm  engaged  ever  so 
many  deep."  She  dr6pped  his  arm  instantly  at 
sight  of  a  young  Englishman  who  seemed  to  be 
looking  for  her.  This  young  Englishman  had  a  zeal 
for  dancing  that  was  unsparing;  partners  were 
nothing  to  him  except  as  a  means  of  dancing ;  his 
manner  expressed  a  supreme  contempt  for  people 
who  made  the  slightest  mistake,  who  danced  with 
less  science  or  less  conscience  than  himself.  "I've 
been  looking  for  you,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  cold  re- 
buke, without  looking  at  her.  "  We  've  been  wait- 
ing." 

Colville  wished  to  beat  him,  but  Imogene  took  his 
rebuke  meekly,  and  murmured  some  apologies  about 
not  hearing  the  piano  before.  He  hurried  her  off 
without  recognising  Colville's  existence  in  any  way. 

The  undancing  husband  of  the  dancing  wife  was 
boring  himself  in  a  corner ;  Colville  decided  that 
the  chances  with  him  were  better  than  with  the 
fond  father,  and  joined  him,  just  as  a  polite  officer 
came  up  and  entreated  him  to  complete  a  set. 
"  Oh,  I  never  danced  in  my  life,"  he  replied ;  and 
then  he  referred  the  officer  to  Colville.  "Don't 
you  dance  ? " 

"I  used  to  dance,"  Colville  began,  while  the 
officer  stood  looking  patiently  at  him.  This  was  true. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  77 

He  used  to  dance  the  Lancers,  too,  and  very  badly, 
seventeen  years  before.  He  had  danced  it  with 
Lina  Ridgely  and  the  other  one,  Mrs.  Milbury. 
His  glance  wandered  to  the  vacant  place  on  the 
floor ;  it  was  the  same  set  which  Miss  Graham  was 
in ;  she  smiled  and  beckoned  derisively.  A  vain 
and  foolish  ambition  fired  him.  "Oh  yes,  I,  can 
dance  a  little,"  he  said. 

A  little  was  quite  enough  for  the  eager  officer. 
He  had  Colville  a  partner  in  an  instant,  and  the 
next  he  was  on  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  what  fun  ! "  cried  Miss  Graham ;  but  the 
fun  had  not  really  begun  yet. 

Colville  had  forgotten  everything  about  the 
Lancers.  He  walked  round  like  a  bear  in  a  pen  : 
he  capered  to  and  fro  with  a  futile  absurdity; 
people  poked  him  hither  and  thither ;  his  progress 
was  attended  by  rending  noises  from  the  trains 
over  which  he  found  his  path.  He  smiled  and 
cringed,  and  apologised  to  the  hardening  faces  of 
the  dancers :  even  Miss  Graham's  face  had  become 
very  grave. 

"This  won't  do,"  said  the  Englishman  at  last, 
with  cold  insolence.  He  did  not  address  himself  to 
any  one  ;  he  merely  stopped  ;  they  all  stopped,  and 
Colville  was  effectively  expelled  the  set1?  another 
partner  was  found  for  his  lady,  and  he  wandered 
giddily  away.  He  did  not  know  where  to  turn  ;  the 
whole  room  must  have  seen  what  an  incredible  ass 
he  had  made  of  himself,  but  Mrs.  Bowen  looked  as 
if  she  had  not  seen. 


78  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

He  went  up  to  her,  resolved  to  make  fun  of  him- 
self at  the  first  sign  she  gave  of  being  privy  to  his 
disgrace.  But  she  only  said,  "  Have  you  found 
your  way  to  the  supper-room  yet  1 " 

"  Oh  yes ;  twice,"  he  answered,  and  kept  on 
talking  with  her  and  Madame  Uccelli.  After 
five  minutes  or  so  something  occurred  to  Colville. 
"  Have  you  found  the  way  to  the  supper-room  yet, 
Mrs.  Bowen  ? " 

"  No  ! "  she  owned,  with  a  small,  pathetic  laugh, 
which  expressed  a  certain  physical  faintness,  and 
reproached  him  with  insupportable  gentleness  for 
his  selfish  obtuseness. 

"  Let  me  show  you  the  way,"  he  cried. 

"  Why,  I  am  rather  hungry,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen, 
taking  his  arm,  with  a  patient  arrangement  first  of 
her  fan,  her  bouquet,  and  her  train,  and  then  mov- 
ing along  by  his  side  with  a  delicate-footed  pace, 
which  insinuated  and  deprecated  her  dependence 
upon  him. 

There  were  only  a  few  people  in  the  supper-room, 
and  they  had  it  practically  to  themselves.  She  took 
a  cup  of  tea  and  a  slice  of  buttered  bread,  with  a 
little  salad,  which  she  excused  herself  from  eating 
because  it  was  the  day  after  her  headache.  "I 
shouldn't  have  thought  you  icere  .hungry,  Mrs. 
Bowen,"  he  said,  "  if  you  hadn't  told  me  so,"  and 
he  recalled  that,  as  a  young  girl,  her  friend  used  to 
laugh  at  her  for  having  such  a  butterfly  appetite ; 
she  was  in  fact  one  of  those  women  who  go  through 
life  the  marvels  of  such  of  our  brutal  sex  as  observe 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  79 

the  ethereal  nature  of  their  diet.  But  in  an  illogical 
revulsion  of  feeling,  Colville,  who  was  again  cram- 
ming himself  with  all  the  solids  and  fluids  in  reach, 
and  storing  up  a  vain  regret  against  the  morrow, 
preferred  her  delicacy  to  the  magnificent  rapacity 
of  Miss  Graham  :  Imogene  had  passed  from  salad 
to  ice,  and  at  his  suggestion  had  frankly  reverted  to 
salad  again  and  then  taken  a  second  ice,  with  the 
robust  appetite  of  perfect  health  and  perfect  youth. 
He  felt  a  desire  to  speak  against  her  to  Mrs.  Bowen, 
he  did  not  know  why  and  he  did  not  know  how ; 
he  veiled  his  feeling  in  an  open  attack.  "Miss 
Graham  has  just  been  the  cause  of  my  playing 
the  fool,  with  her  dancing.  She  dances  so  superbly 
that  she  makes  you  want  to  dance  too — she  made 
me  feel  as  if  I  could  dance." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen ;  "  it  was  very  kind  of 
you  to  complete  the  set.  I  saw  you  dancing,"  she 
added,  without  a  glimmer  of  guilty  consciousness  in 
her  eyes. 

It  was  very  sweet,  but  Colville  had  to  protest. 
"  Oh  no ;  you  didn't  see  me  dancing  ;  you  saw  me  not 
dancing.  I  am  a  ruined  man,  and  I  leave  Florence 
to  morrow ;  but  I  have  the  sad  satisfaction  of  re- 
flecting that  I  don't  leave  an  unbroken  train  among 
the. ladies  of  that  set.  And  I  have  made  one  young 
Englishman  so  mad  that  there  is  a  reasonable  hope 
of  his  not  recovering." 

"  Oh  no ;  you  don't  think  of  going  away  for  that !" 
said  Mrs.  Bowen,  not  heeding  the  rest  of  his  joking. 

"Well,   the    time    has   been   when   I   have   left 


80  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Florence  for  less,"  said  Colville,  with  the  air  of  pre- 
paring himself  to  listen  to  reason. 

"  You  mustn't,"  said  Mrs.  Bovven  briefly. 

"Oh,  very  well,  then,  I  won't,"  said  Colville 
whimsically,  as  if  that  settled  it. 

Mrs.  Bowen  would  not  talk  of  the  matter  any 
more;  he  could  see  that  with  her  kindness,  which 
was  always  more  than  her  tact,  she  was  striving  to 
get  away  from  the  subject.  As  he  really  cared  for 
it  no  longer,  this  made  him  persist  in  clinging  to  it ; 
he  liked  this  pretty  woman's  being  kind  to  him. 
"  Well,"  he  said  finally,  "  I  consent  to  stay  in  Flor- 
ence on  condition  that  you  suggest  some  means  of 
atonement  for  me  which  I  can  also  make  a  punish- 
ment to  Miss  Graham." 

Mrs.  Bowen  did  not  respond  to  the  question  of 
placating  and  punishing  her  proUgte  with  sustained 
interest.  They  went  back  to  Madame  Uccelli,  arid 
to  the  other  elderly  ladies  in  the  room  that  opened 
by  archways  upon  the  dancing-room. 

Imogene  was  on  the  floor,  dancing  not  merely 
with  unabated  joy,  but  with  a  zest  that  seemed  only 
to  freshen  from  dance  to  dance.  If  she  left  the 
dancey  it  was  to  go  out  on  her  partner's  arm  to  the 
supper-room.  Colville  could  not  decently  keep  on 
talking  to  Mrs.  Bowen  the  whole  evening ;  it  would 
be  too  conspicuous ;  he  devolved  from  frump  to 
frump  ;  he  bored  himself ;  he  yawned  in  his  passage 
from  one  of  these  mothers  or  fathers  to  another. 
The  hours  passed  ;  it  was  two  o'clock  ;  Imogene  was 
going  out  to  the  supper-room  again.  He  was  taking 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  81 

out  his  watch.  She  saw  him,  and  "  Oh,  don't !"  she 
cried,  laughing,  as  she  passed. 

The  dancing  went  on ;  she  was  waltzing  now  in 
the  interminable  german.  Some  one  had  let  clown 
a  window  in  the  dancing-room,  and  he  was  feeling  it 
in  his  shoulder.  Mrs.  Bowen,  across  the  room, 
looked  heroically  patient,  but  weary.  He  glanced 
down  at  the  frump  on  the  sofa  near,  and  realised 
that  she  had  been  making  a  long  speech  to  him, 
which,  he  could  -see  from  her  look,  had  ended  in 
some  sort  of  question. 

Three  o'clock  came,  and  they  had  to  wait  till  the 
german  was  over.  He  felt  that  Miss  Graham  was 
behaving  badly,  ungratefully,  selfishly ;  on  the  way 
home  in  the  carriage  he  was  silent  from  utter  bore- 
dom and  fatigue,  but  Mrs.  Bowen  was  sweetly 
sympathetic  with  the  girl's  rapture.  Imogene  did 
not  seem  to  feel  his  moodiness ;  she  laughed,  she 
joked,  she  told  a  number  of  things  that  happened, 
she  hummed  the  air  of  the  last  waltz.  "  Isn't  it 
divine  1 "  she  asked.  "  Oh !  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
dance  for  a  week."  She  was  still  dancing ;  she  gave 
Colville's  foot  an  accidental  tap  in  keeping  time  on 
the  floor  of  the  carriage  to  the  tune  she  was  hum- 
ming. No  one  said  anything  about  a  next  meeting 
when  they  parted  at  the  gate  of  Palazzo  Pinti,  and 
Mrs.  Bowen  bade  her  coachman  drive  Colville  to  his 
hotel.  But  both  the  ladies'  voices. called  good-night 
to  him  as  he  drove  away.  He  fancied  a  shade  of 
mocking  in  Miss  Graham's  voice. 

The  great  outer  door  of  the  hotel  was  locked,  of 
F 


82  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

course,  and  the  poor  little  porter  kept  Colville 
thumping  at  it  some  time  before  he  unlocked  it,  full 
of  sleepy  smiles  and  apologies.  "  I  ''m  sorry  to  wake 
you  up,"  said  Colville  kindly. 

"It  is  my  duty,"  said  the  pcrter,  with  amiable 
heroism.  He  discharged  another  duty  by  lighting  a 
whole  new  candle,  which  would  be  set  down  to  Col- 
ville's  account,  and  went  before  him  to  his  room,  up 
the  wide  stairs,  cold  in  their  white  linen  path,  and 
on  through  the  crooked  corridors  haunted  by  the 
ghosts  of  extinct  tables  d'hdte,  and  full  of  goblin 
shadows.  He  had  recovered  a  noonday  suavity  by 
the  time  he  reached  Colville's  door,  and  bowed  him- 
self out,  after  lighting  the  candles  within,  with  a 
sweet  plenitude  of  politeness,  which  Colville,  even 
in  his  gloomy  mood,  could  not  help  admiring  in  a 
man  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  with  only  one  suspender  up. 

If  there  had  been  a  fire,  Colville  would  have  liked 
to  sit  down  before  it,  and  take  an  account  of  his 
feelings,  but  the  atmosphere  of  a  bed-chamber  in  a 
Florentine  hotel  at  half-past  three  o'clock  on  a 
winter  morning  is  not  one  that  invites  to  medita- 
tion; and  he  made  haste  to  get  into  bed,  with 
nothing  clearer  in  his  mind  than  a  shapeless  sense  of 
having  been  trifled  with.  He  ought  not  to  have 
gone  to  a  dancing  party,  to  begin  with,  and  then  he 
certainly  ought  not  to  have  attempted  to  dance  ;  so 
far  he  might  have  been  master  of  the  situation,  and 
was  responsible  for  it ;  but  he  was,  over  and  above 
this,  aware  of  not  having  wished  to  do  either,  of 
having  been  wrought  upon  against  his  convictions 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  83 

to  do  both.  He  regarded  now  with  supreme  loath- 
ing a  fantastic  purpose  which  he  had  formed  while 
tramping  round  on  those  women's  dresses,  of  pri- 
vately taking  lessons  in  dancing,  and  astonishing 
Miss  Graham  at  the  next  ball  where  they  met. 
Miss  Graham  ?  What  did  he  care  for  that  child  1 
Or  Mrs.  Bo  wen  either,  for  the  matter  of  that  ?  Had 
he  come  four  thousand  miles  to  be  used,  to  be  played 
with,  by  them  ?  At  this  point  Colville  was  aware  of 
the  brutal  injustice  of  his  mood.  They  were  ladies, 
both  of  them,  charming  and  good,  and  he  had  been 
a  fool ;  that  was  all.  It  was  not  the  first  time  he 
had  been  a  fool  for  women.  An  inexpressible  bitter- 
ness for  that  old  wrong,  which,  however  he  had  been 
used  to  laugh  at  it  and  despise  it,  had  made  his  life 
solitary  and  barren,  poured  upon  his  soul ;  it  was  as 
if  it  had  happened  to  him  yesterday. 

A  band  of  young  men  burst  from  one  of  the  narrow 
streets  leading  into  the  piazza  and  straggled  across 
it,  letting  their  voices  flare  out  upon  the  silence,  and 
then  drop  extinct  one  by  one.  A  whole  world  of 
faded  associations  flushed  again  in  Colville's  heart. 
This  was  Italy ;  this  was  Florence  ;  and  he  execrated 
the  hour  in  which  he  had  dreamed  of  returning. 


VII. 


THE  next  morning's  sunshine  dispersed  the  black 
mood  of  the  night  before  ;  but  enough  of  Colville's 
self-disgust  remained  to  determine  him  not  to  let 
his  return  to  Florence  be  altogether  vain,  or  his 
sojourn  so  idle  as  it  had  begun  being.  The  vague 
purpose  which  he  had  cherished  of  studying  the 
past  life  and  character  of  the  Florentines  in  their 
architecture  shaped  itself  anew  in  the  half-hour 
which  he  gave  himself  over  his  coffee ;  and  he 
turned  it  over  in  his  mind  with  that  mounting  joy 
in  its  capabilities  which  attends  the  contemplation 
of  any  sort  of  artistic  endeavour.  No  people  had 
ever  more  distinctly  left  the  impress  of  their  whole 
temper  in  their  architecture,  or  more  sharply  dis- 
tinguished their  varying  moods  from  period  to  period 
in  their  palaces  and  temples.  He  believed  that  he 
could  not  only  supply  that  brief  historical  sketch  of 
Florence  which  Mrs.  Bowen  had  lamented  the  want 
of,  but  he  could  make  her  history  speak  an  unintel- 
ligible, an  unmistakeable  tongue  in  every  monument 
of  the  past,  from  the  Etruscan  wall  at  Fiesole  to  the 
cheap,  plain,  and  tasteless  shaft  raised  to  commemo- 

84 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  85 

rate  Italian  Unity  in  the  next  piazza.  With  sketches 
from  his  own  pencil,  illustrative  of  points  which  he 
could  not  otherwise  enforce,  he  could  make  such  a 
book  on  Florence  as  did  not  exist,  such  a  book  as 
no  one  had  yet  thought  of  making.  With  this 
object  in  his  mind,  making  and  keeping  him  young, 
he  could  laugh  with  any  one  who  liked  at  the  vanity 
of  the  middle-aged  Hoosier  who  had  spoiled  a  set  in 
the  Lancers  at  Madame  Uccelli's  party ;  he.  laughed 
at  him  now  alone,  with  a 'wholly  impersonal  sense  of 
his  absurdity. 

After  breakfast  he  went  without  delay  to  Vies- 
seux's  reading-room,  to  examine  his  catalogue,  and 
see  what  there  was  in  it  to  his  purpose.  While  he 
was  waiting  his  turn  to  pay  his  subscription,  with 
the  people  who  surrounded  the  proprietor,  half  a 
dozen  of  the  acquaintances  he  had  made  at  Mrs. 
Bowen's  passed  in  and  out.  Viesseux's  is  a  place 
where  sooner  or  later  you  meet  every  one  you  know 
among  the  foreign  residents  at  Florence  ;  the  natives 
in  smaller  proportion  resort  there  too ;  and  Colville 
heard  a  lady  asking  for  a  book  in  that  perfect  Italian 
which  strikes  envy  to  the  heart  of  the  stranger  suffi- 
ciently versed  in  the  language  to  know  that  he  never 
shall  master  it.  He  rather  rejoiced  in  his  despair, 
however,  as  an  earnest  of  his  renewed  intellectual 
life.  Henceforth  his  life  would  be  wholly  intel- 
lectual. He  did  not  regret  his  little  excursion  into 
society ;  it  had  shown  him  with  dramatic  sharpness 
how  unfit  for  it  he  was. 

"  Good  morning  /"  said  some  one  in  a  bland  under- 


86  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

tone  full  of  a  pleasant  recognition  of  the  claims  to 
quiet  of  a  place  where  some  others  were  speaking  in 
their  ordinary  tones. 

Colville  looked  round  on  the  Rev.  Mr.  "Waters, 
and  took  his  friendly  hand.  "  Good  morning — glad 
to  see  you,"  he  answered. 

"  Are  you  looking  for  that  short  Florentine  history 
for  Mrs.  Bowen's  little  girl  1 "  asked  Mr.  Waters,  in- 
clining his  head  slightly  for  the  reply.  "  She  men- 
tioned it  to  me." 

By  day  Colville  remarked  more  distinctly  that  the 
old  gentleman  was  short  and  slight,  with  a  youthful 
eagerness  in  his  face  surviving  on  good  terms  with 
the  grey  locks  that  fell  down  his  temples  from  under 
the  brim  of  his  soft  felt  hat.  With  the  boyish 
sweetness  of  his  looks  blended  a  sort  of  appreciative 
shrewdness,  which  pointed  his  smiling  lips  slightly 
aslant  in  what  seemed  the  expectation  rather  than 
the  intention  of  humour. 

"  Not  exactly,"  said  Colville,  experiencing  a  diffi- 
culty in  withholding  the  fact  that  in  some  sort  he 
was  just  going  to  write  a  short  Florentine  history, 
and  finding  a  certain  pleasure  in  Mrs.  Bowen's  hav- 
ing remembered  that  he  had  taken  an  interest  in 
Effie's  reading.  He  had  a  sudden  wish  to  tell  Mr. 
Waters  of  his  plan,  but  this  was  hardly  the  time  or 
place. 

They  now  found  themselves  face  to  face  with  the 
librarian,  and  Mr.  Waters  made  a  gesture  of  waiving 
himself  in  Colville's  favour. 

"  No,  no  !"  said  the  latter  ;  "you  had  better  ask. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  S'i 

I  am  going  to  put  this  gentleman  through  rather  an 
extended  course  of  sprouts." 

The  librarian  smiled  with  the  helplessness  of  a 
foreigner,  who  knows  his  interlocutor's  English,  but 
not  the  meaning  of  it. 

"Oh,  I  merely  wanted  to  ask,"  said  Mr.  Waters, 
addressing  the  librarian,  and  explaining  to  Colville, 
"  whether  you  had  received  that  book  on  Savonarola 
yet.  The  German  one." 

"I  shall  see,"  said  the  librarian,  and  he  went 
upon  a  quest  that  kept  him  some  minutes. 

"  You  're  not  thinking  of  taking  Savonarola's  life, 
I  suppose  1 "  suggested  Colville. 

"  Oh  no.  Villari's  book  has  covered  the  whole 
ground  for  ever,  it  seems  to  me.  It 's  a  wonderful 
book.  You  Ve  read  it  1 " 

"Yes.  It's  a  thing  that  makes  you  feel  that, 
after  all,  the  Italians  have  only  to  make  a  real  effort 
in  any  direction,  and  they  go  ahead  of  everybody 
else.  What  biography  of  the  last  twenty  years  can 
compare  with  it  1  " 

"You're  right,  sir — you're  right,"  cried  the  old 
man  enthusiastically.  "  They  're  a  gifted  race,  a 
people  of  genius." 

"  I  wish  for  their  own  sakes  they  'd  give  their 
minds  a  little  to  generalship,"  said  Colville,  pressed 
by  the  facts  to  hedge  somewhat.  "  They  did  get  so 
badly  smashed  in  their  last  war,  poor  fellows." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  I  should  like  them  any  better 
if  they  were  better  soldiers.  Perhaps  the  lesson  of 
noble  endurance  that  they  Ve  given  our  times  is  all 


88  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

that  we  have  the  right  to  demand  of  them  in  the 
way  of  heroism ;  no  one  can  say  they  lack  courage. 
And  sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that  in  simply  out- 
growing the  different  sorts  of  despotism  that  had 
fastened  upon  them,  till  their  broken  bonds  fell 
away  without  positive  effort  on  their  part,  they 
showed  a  greater  sublimity  than  if  they  had  violently 
conquered  their  freedom.  Most  nations  sink  lower 
and  lower  under  tyranny  ;  the  Italians  grew  steadily 
more  and  more  civilised,  more  noble,  more  gentle, 
more  grand.  It  was  a  wonderful  spectacle — like  a 
human  soul  perfected  through  suffering  and  priva- 
tion. Every  period  of  their  history  is  full  of  instruc- 
tion. I  find  my  ancestral  puritanism  particularly 
appealed  to  by  the  puritanism  of  Savonarola." 

"Then  Villari  hasn't  satisfied  you  that  Savon- 
arola wasn't  a  Protestant  1 " 

"Oh  yes,  he  has.  I  said  his  puritanism.  Just 
now  I  'm  interested  in  justifying  his  failure  to  myself, 
for  it 's  one  of  the  things  in  history  that  I  've  found 
it  hardest  to  accept.  But  no  doubt  his  puritanic 
state  fell  because  it  was  dreary  and  ugly,  as  the 
puritanic  state  always  has  been.  It  makes  its  own 
virtues  intolerable ;  puritanism  won't  let  you  see 
how  good  and  beautiful  the  Puritans  often  are.  It 
was  inevitable  that  Savonarola's  enemies  should  mis- 
understand and  hate  him." 

"  You  are  one  of  the  last  men  I  should  have  ex- 
pected to  find  among  the  Armbiati,"  said  Colville. 

"  Oh,  there 's  a  great  deal  to  be  said  for  the 
Florentine  Arrabiati,  as  well  as  for  the  English 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  89 

Malignants,  though  the  Puritans  in  neither  case 
would  have  known  how  to  say  it.  Savonarola 
perished  because  he  was  excessive.  I  am,  study- 
ing him  in  this  aspect ;  it  is  fresh  ground.  It  is 
very  interesting  to  inquire  just  at  what  point  a 
man's  virtues  become  mischievous  and  intolerable." 

These  ideas  interested  Colville  ;  he  turned  to  them 
with  relief  from  the  sense  of  his  recent  trivialities ; 
in  this  old  man's  earnestness  he  found  support  and 
encouragement  in  the  new  course  he  had  marked 
out  for  himself.  Sometimes  it  had  occurred  to  him 
not  only  that  he  was  too  old  for  the  interests  of  his 
youth  at  forty,  but  that  there  was  no  longer  time 
for  him  to  take  up  new  ones.  He  considered  Mr. 
Waters's  grey  hairs,  and  determined  to  be  wiser. 
"  I  should  like  to  talk  these  things  over  with  you — 
and  some  other  things,"  he  said. 

The  librarian  came  toward  them  with  the  book 
for  Mr.  Waters,  who  was  fumbling  near-sightedly 
in  his  pocket-book  for  his  card.  "  I  shall  be  very 
happy  to  see  you  at  my  room,"  he  said.  "  Ah, 
thank  you,"  he  added,  taking  his  book,  with  a 
simple  relish  as  if  it  were  something  whose  pleasant- 
ness was  sensible  to  the  touch.  He  gave  Colville 
the  scholar's  far-off  look  as  he  turned  to  go  :  he  was 
already  as  remote  as  the  fifteenth  century  through 
the  magic  of  the  book,  which  he  opened  and  began 
to  read  at  once.  Colville  stared  after  him  ;  he  did 
not  wish  to  come  to  just  that  yet,  either.  Life, 
active  life,  life  of  his  own  day,  called  to  him  ;  he 
had  been  one  of  its  busiest  children :  could  he  turn 


90  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

his  back  upon  it  for  any  charm  or  use  that  was  in 
the  past  ?  Again  that  unnerving  doubt,  that  para- 
lysing distrust,  beset  him,  and  tempted  him  to  curse 
the  day  in  which  he  had  returned  to  this  outworn 
Old  World.  Idler  on  its  modern  surface,  or  delver 
in  its  deep-hearted  past,  could  he  reconcile  himself 
to  it  1  What  did  he  care  for  the  Italians  of  to-day, 
or  the  history  of  the  Florentines  as  expressed  in 
their  architectural  monuments  1  It  was  the  problems 
of  the  vast,  tumultuous  American  life,  which  he 
had  turned  his  back  on,  that  really  concerned  him. 
Later  he  might  take  up  the  study  that  fascinated 
yonder  old  man,  but  for  the  present  it  was  intoler- 
able. 

He  was  no  longer  young,  that  was  true ;  but  with  an 
ache  of  old  regret  he  felt  that  he  had  not  yet  lived 
his  life,  that  his  was  a  baffled  destiny,  an  arrested 
fate.  A  lady  came  up  and  took  his  turn  with  the 
librarian,  and  Colville  did  not  stay  for  another. 
He  went  out  and  walked  down  the  Lung'  Arno 
toward  the  Cascine.  The  sun  danced  on  the  river, 
and  bathed  the  long  line  of  pale  buff  and  grey  houses 
that  followed  its  curve,  and  ceased  in  the  mist  of 
leafless  tree-tops  where  the  Cascine  began.  It  was 
not  the  hour  of  the  promenade,  and  there  was  little 
driving ;  but  the  sidewalks  were  peopled  thickly 
enough  with  persons,  in  groups,  or  singly,  who  had 
the  air  of  straying  aimlessly  up  or  down,  with  no 
purpose  but  to  be  in  the  sun,  after  the  rainy  weather 
of  the  past  week.  There  were  faces  of  invalids, 
wistful  and  thin,  and  here  and  there  a  man,  muffled 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  91 

to  the  chin,  lounged  feebly  on  the  parapet  and  stared 
at  the  river.  Colville  hastened  by  them ;  they 
seemed  to  claim  him  as  one  of  their  ailing  and  aging 
company,  and  just  then  he  was  in  the  humour  of 
being  very  young  and  strong. 

A  carriage  passed  before  him  through  the  Cascine 
gates,  and  drove  down  the  road  next  the  river.  He 
followed,  and  when  it  had  got  a  little  way  it  stopped 
at  the  roadside,  and  a  lady  and  little  girl  alighted, 
who  looked  about  and  caught  sight  of  him,  and 
then  obviously  waited  for  him  to  come  up  with 
them.  It  was  Imogene  and  Effie  Bowen,  and  the 
young  girl  called  to  him  :  "  We  thought  it  was  you. 
Aren't  you  astonished  to  find  us  here  at  this  hour  1 " 
she  demanded,  as  soon  as  he  came  up,  and  gave  him 
her  hand.  "  Mrs.  Bowen  sent  us  for  our  health — or 
Effie's  health — and  I  was  just  making  the  man  stop 
and  let  us  out  for  a  little  walk." 

"  My  health  is  very  much  broken  too,  Miss  Effie," 
said  Colville.  "  Will  you  let  me  walk  with  you  1 " 
The  child  smiled,  as  she  did  at  Colville's  speeches, 
which  she  apparently  considered  all  jokes,  but 
diplomatically  referred  the  decision  to  Imogene 
with  an  upward  glance. 

"  We  shall  be  very  glad  indeed,"  said  the  girl. 

<f  That 's  very  polite  of  you.  But  Miss  Effie  makes 
no  effort  to  conceal  her  dismay,"  said  Colville. 

The  little  girl  smiled  again,  and  her  smile  was  so 
like  the  smile  of  Lina  Ridgely,  twenty  years  ago, 
that  his  next  words  were  inevitably  tinged  with 
reminiscence. 


92  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  Does  one  still  come  for  one's  health  to  the 
Cascine  ?  When  I  was  in  Florence  before,  there 
was  no  other  place  if  one  went  to  look  for  it  with 
young  ladies — the  Cascine  or  the  Boboli  Gardens. 
Do  they  keep  the  fountain  of  youth  turned  on  here 
during  the  winter  still  1  " 

"  I  Ve  never  seen  it,"  said  Imogene  gaily. 

"  Of  course  not.  You  never  looked  for  it. 
Neither  did  I  when  I  was  here  before.  But  it 
wouldn't  escape  me  now." 

Since  he  had  met  them  he  had  aged  again,  in  spite  of 
his  resolutions  to  the  contrary ;  somehow,  beside  their 
buoyancy  and  bloom,  the  youth  in  his  heart  faded. 

Imogene  had  started  forward  as  soon  as  he  joined 
them,  and  Colville,  with  Effie's  gloved  hand  stolen 
shyly  in  his,  was  finding  it  quite  enough  to  keep  up 
with  her  in  her  elastic  advance. 

She  wore  a  long  habit  of  silk,  whose  fur-trimmed 
edge  wandered  diagonally  across  her  breast  and  down 
to  the  edge  of  her  walking  dress.  To  Colville,  whom 
her  girlish  slimness  in  her  ball  costume  had  puzzled 
after  his  original  impressions  of  Junonian  abundance, 
she  did  not  so  much  dwindle  as  seem  to  vanish  from 
the  proportions  his  visions  had  assigned  her  that  first 
night  when  he  saw  her  standing  before  the  mirror. 
In  this  outdoor  avatar,  this  companionship  with  the 
sun  and  breeze,  she  was  new  to  him  again,  and  he 
found  himself  searching  his  consciousness  for  his  lost 
acquaintance  with  her,  and  feeling  as  if  he  knew  her 
less  and  less.  Perhaps,  indeed,  she  had  no  very  dis- 
tinctive individuality  ;  perhaps  at  her  age  no  woman 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  93 

has,  but  waits  for  it  to  come  to  her  through  life, 
through  experience.  She  was  an  expression  of  youth, 
of  health,  of  beauty,  and  of  the  moral  loveliness  that 
comes  from  a  fortunate  combination  of  these;  but 
beyond  this  she  was  elusive  in  a  way  that  seemed  to 
characterise  her  even  materially.  He  could  not 
make  anything  more  cf  the  mystery  as  he  walked 
at  her  side,  and  he  went  thinking — formlessly,  as 
people  always  think — that  with  the  child  or  wTith 
her  mother  he  would  have  had  a  community  of 
interest  and  feeling  which  he  lacked  with  this 
splendid  girlhood  !  he  was*  both  too  young  and  too 
oid  for  it ;  and  then,  while  he  answered  this  or  that 
to  Imogene's  talk  aptly  enough,  his  mind  went  back 
to  the  time  when  this  mystery  was  no  mystery,  or 
when  he  was  contemporary  with  it,  and  if  he  did 
not  understand  it,  at  least  accepted  it  as  if  it  were 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  It  seemed  a 
longer  time  now  since  it  had  been  in  his  world  than 
it  was  since  he  was  a  child. 

"Should  yo,u  have  thought,"  she  asked,  turning 
her  face  back  toward  him,  "  that  it  would  be  so  hot 
in  the  sun  to-day  ?  Oh,  that  beautiful  river  !  How 
it  twists  and  writhes  along  !  Do  you  remember  that 
sonnet  of  Longfellow's — the  one  he  wrote  in  Italian 
about  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  and  the  Arno  twisting  like 
a  dragon  underneath  it  ?  They  say  that  Hawthorne 
used  to  live  in  a  villa  just  behind  the  hill  over  there; 
we  're  going  to  look  it  up  as  soon  as  the  weather  is 
settled.  Don't  you  think  his  books  are  perfectly 
fascinating  1 " 


94  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"Yes,"  said  Colville  ;  "  only  I  should  want  a  good 
while  to  say  it." 

"  /shouldn't ! "  retorted  the  girl.  "  When  you  've 
said  fascinating,  you  've  said  everything.  There  's 
no  other  word  for  them.  Don't  you  like  to  talk 
about  the  books  you  've  read  1 " 

"  I  would  if  I  could  remember  the  names  of  the 
characters.  But  I  get  them  mixed  up." 

"  Oh,  /  never  do  !  I  remember  the  least  one  of 
them,  and  all  they  do  and  say." 

"  I  used  to." 

"It  seems  to  me  you  used  to  do  everything." 

"  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  did. 

"  *  I  remember,  when  I  think, 

That  my  youth  was  half  divine.'  " 

"  Oh,  Tennyson — yes  !  He 's  fascinating.  Don't 
you  think  he  's  fascinating  ?  " 

"  Very,"  said  Colville.  He  was  wondering  whether 
this  were  the  kind  of  talk  that  he  thought  was  lite- 
rary when  he  was  a  young  fellow. 

"  How  perfectly  weird  the  '  Vision  of  Sin ' 
is!"  Imogene  continued.  "Don't  you  like  weird 
things?" 

"  Weird  things  ?"  Colville  reflected.  "  Yes ;  but 
I  don't  see  very  much  in  them  any  more.  The 
fact  is,  they  don't  seem  to  come  to  anything  in 
particular." 

"  Oh,  /  think  they  do  !  I  've  had  dreams  that 
I  've  lived  on  for  days.  Do  you  ever  have  prophetic 
dreams  ? " 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  95 

"  Yes  ;  but  they  never  come  true.  When  they 
do,  I  know  that  I  didn't  have  them." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"I  mean  that  we  are  all  so  fond  of  the  marvellous 
that  we  can't  trust  ourselves  about  any  experience 
that  seems  supernatural.  If  a  ghost  appeared  to  me 
I  should  want  him  to  prove  it  by  at  least  two  other 
reliable,  disinterested  witnesses  before  I  believed  my 
own  account  of  the  matter." 

"  Oh  ! "  cried  the  girl,  half  puzzled,  half  amused. 
"  Then  of  course  you  don't  believe  in  ghosts  1  " 

"  Yes ;  I  expect  to  be  one  myself  some  day.  But 
I  'm  in  no  hurry  to  mingle  with  them." 

Imogene  smiled  vaguely,  as  if  the  talk  pleased  her, 
even  when  it  mocked  the  fancies  and  whims  which, 
after  so  many  generations  that  have  indulged  them, 
she  was  finding  so  fresh  and  new  in  her  turn. 

"  Don't  you  like  to  walk  by  the  side  of  a  river  ? " 
she  asked,  increasing  her  eager  pace  a  little.  "  I 
feel  as  if  it  were  bearing  me  along." 

"I  feel  as  if  I  were  carrying  it,"  said  Colville. 
"It 's  as  fatiguing  as  walking  on  railroad  ties." 

"  Oh,  that 's  too  bad  ! "  cried  the  girl.  "  How  can 
you  be  so  prosaic  1  Should  you  ever  have  believed 
that  the  sun  could  be  so  hot  in  January  1  And  look 
at  those  ridiculous'  green  hillsides  over  the  river 
there !  Don't  you  like  it  to  be  winter  when  it  is 
winter  1 " 

She  did  not  seem  to  have  expected  anything  from 
Colville  but  an  impulsive  acquiescence,  but  she 
listened  while  he  defended  the  mild  weather.  "  I 


96  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

think  it's  very  well  for  Italy,"  he  said.  "It  has 
always  seemed  to  me — that  is,  it  seems  to  me  now 
for  the  first  time,  but  one  has  to  begin  the  other 
way — as  if  the  seasons  here  had  worn  themselves 
out  like  the  turbulent  passions  of  the  people.  I 
dare  say  the  winter  was  much  fiercer  in  the  times  of 
the  Bianchi  and  Neri." 

"  Oh,  how  delightful !  Do  you  really  believe 
that  t " 

"  No,  I  don't  know  that  I  do.  But  I  shouldn't 
have  much  difficulty  in  proving  it,  I  think,  to  the 
sympathetic  understanding." 

"  I  wish  you  would  prove  it  to  mine.  It  sounds 
so  pretty,  I  'm  sure  it  must  be  true." 

"  Oh,  then,  it  isn't  necessary.  I  '11  reserve  my 
arguments  for  Mrs.  Bo  wen." 

"  You  had  better.  She  isn't  at  all  romantic.  She 
says  it's  very  welt  for  me  she  isn't — that  her 
being  matter-of-fact  lets  me  be  as  romantic  as  I 
like." 

"  Then  Mrs.  Bo  wen  isn't  as  romantic  as  she  would 
like  to  be  if  she  hadn't  charge  of  a  romantic  young 
lady  1 " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  say  that.  Dear  me  !  I  'd  no  idea 
it  coidd  be  so  hot  in  January."  As  they  strolled 
along  beside  the  long  hedge  of  laurel,  the  carriage 
slowly  following  them  at  a  little  distance,  the  sun 
beat  strong  upon  the  white  road,  blotched  here  and 
there  with  the  black  irregular  shadows  of  the  ilexes. 
The  girl  undid  the  pelisse  across  her  breast,  with 
a  fine  impetuosity,  and  let  it  swing  open  as  she 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  97 

walked.  She  stopped  suddenly.  "Hark!  What 
bird  was  that  1 " 

"  *  It  was  the  nightingale,  and  not  the  lark/  "  sug- 
gested Colville  lazily. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  think  Romeo  and  Juliet  is  divine  1 " 
demanded  Imogene,  promptly  dropping  the  question 
of  the  bird. 

"  I  don't  know  about  Romeo,"  returned  Colville, 
"  but  it 's  sometimes  occurred  to  me  that  Juliet  was 
rather  forth-putting." 

"  You  know  she  wasn't.  It 's  my  favourite  play. 
I  could  go  every  night.  It 's  perfectly  amazing  to 
me  that  they  can  play  anything  else." 

"  You  would  like  it  five  hundred  nights  in  the 
year,  like  Hazel  Kirke  ?  That  would  be  a  good  deal 
of  Romeo,  not  to  say  Juliet." 

"  They  ought  to  do  it  out  of  respect  to  Shake- 
$peare.  Don't  you  like  Shakespeare  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  Ve  seen  the  time  when  I  preferred  Alex- 
ander Smith,"  said  Colville  evasively. 

"  Alexander  Smith  ?  Who  in  the  world  is  Alex- 
ander Smith  1 " 

"  How  recent  you  are  !  Alexander  Smith  was  an 
immortal  who  flourished  about  the  year  1850." 

"  That  was  before  I  was  born.  How  could  L  re- 
member him  1  But  I  don't  feel  so  very  recent  for 
all  that." 

"  Neither  do  I,  this  morning,"  said  Colville.  "  I 
was  up  at  one  of  Pharaoh's  balls  last  night,  and  I 
danced  too  much." 

He  gave  Imogene  a  droll  glance,  and  then  bent  it 


98  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

upon  Effie's  discreet  face.  The  child  dropped  her 
eyes  with  a  blush  like  her  mother's,  having  first 
sought  provisional  counsel  of  Imogene,  who  turned 
away.  He  rightly  inferred  that  they  all  had  been 
talking  him  over  at  breakfast,  and  he  broke  into 
a  laugh  which  they  joined  in,  but  Imogene  said 
nothing  in  recognition  of  the  fact. 

With  what  he  felt  to  be  haste  for  his  relief 
she  said,  "Don't  you  hate  to  be  told  to  read  a 
book  ? " 

"  I  used  to — quarter  of  a  century  ago,"  said  Col- 
ville,  recognising  that  this  was  the  way  young  people 
talked,  even  then. 

"  Used  to  1 "  she  repeated.     "  Don't  you  now  1 " 

c*No;  I'm  a  great  deal  more  tractable  now.  I 
always  say  that  I  shall  get  the  book  out  of  the 
library.  I  draw  the  line  at  buying.  I  still  hate  to 
buy  a  book  that  people  recommend."  • 

"  What  kind  of  books  do  you  like  to  buy  ? " 

"  Oh,  no  kind.  I  think  we  ought  to  get  all  our 
books  out  of  the  library." 

"  Do  you  never  like  to  talk  m  earnest  1 " 

"Well,  not  often,"  said  Colville.  "Because,  if 
you  do,  you  can't  say  with  a  good  conscience  after- 
ward that  you  were  only  in  fun." 

"  Oh  !  And  do  you  always  like  to  talk  so  that 
you  can  get  out  of  things  afterward  1 " 

"  No.     I  didn't  say  that,  did  1 1 " 

"  Very  nearly,  I  should  think." 

"  Then  I  'm  glad  I  didn't  quite." 

"  I  like  people  to  be  outspoken — to  say  everything 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  99* 

they  think,"  said  the  girl,  regarding  him  with  a 
puzzled  look. 

"  Then  I  foresee  that  I  shall  become  a  favourite," 
answered  Colville.  "  I  say  a  great  deal  more  than  I 
think." 

She  looked  at  him  again  with  envy,  with  admira- 
tion, qualifying  her  perplexity.  They  had  come  to 
a  point  where  some  moss-grown,  weather-beaten 
statues  stood  at  the  corners  of  the  road  that  tra- 
versed the  bosky  stretch  between  the  avenues  of 
the  Cascine.  "  Ah,  how  beautiful  they  are  ! "  he 
said,  halting,  and  giving  himself  to  the  rapture  that 
a  blackened  garden  statue  imparts  to  one  who  be- 
holds it  from  the  vantage-ground  of  sufficient  years 
and  experience. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  story  of  Heine's,"  he  re- 
sumed, after  a  moment,  "  of  the  boy  who  steals  out 
of  the  old  castle  by  moonlight,  and  kisses  the  lips  of 
the  garden  statue,  fallen  among  the  rank  grass  of  the 
ruinous  parterres  1  And  long  afterward,  when  he 
looks  down  on  the  sleep  of  the  dying  girl  where  she 
lies  on  the  green  sofa,  it  seems  to  him  that  she  and 
that  statue  are  the  same  1 " 

"  Oh  !  "  deeply  sighed  the  young  girl.  "  No,  I 
never  read  it.  Tell  me  what  it  is.  I  must  read  it." 

"  The  rest  is  all  talk — very  good  talk ;  but  I 
doubt  whether  it  would  interest  you.  He  goes  on 
to  talk  of  a  great  many  things  —of  the  way  Bellini 
spoke  French,  for  example.  He  says  it  was  blood- 
curdling, horrible,  cataclysmal.  He  brought  out  the 
poor  French  words  and  broke  them  upon  the  wheel, 


100  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

till  you  thought  the  whole  world  must  give  way  with 
a  thunder-crash.  A  dead  hush  reigned  in  the  room  ; 
the  women  did  not  know  whether  to  faint  or  fly ; 
the  men  looked  down  at  their  pantaloons,  and  tried 
to  realise  what  they  had  on." 

"  Oh,  how  perfectly  delightful  !  how  shameful  ! " 
cried  the  girl.  "  I  must  read  it.  What  is  it  in  ? 
What  is  the  name  of  the  story  ? "  • 

"  It  isn't  a  story,"  said  Colville.  "  Did  you  ever 
see  anything  lovelier  than  these  statues  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Imogene.     "  Are  they  good  1 " 

"  They  are  much  better  than  good — they  are  the 
very  worst  rococo." 

"  What  makes  you  say  they  are  beautiful,  then  1 " 

"  Why,  don't  you  see  *?  They  commemorate 
youth,  gaiety,  brilliant,  joyous  life.  That's  what 
that  kind  of  statues  was  made  for — to  look  on  at 
rich,  young,  beautiful  people  and  their  gallantries ; 
to  be  danced  before  by  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen 
playing  at  shepherd  and  shepherdesses ;  to  be  driven 
past  by  marcheses  and  contessinas  flirting  in  car- 
riages ;  to  be  hung  with  scarfs  and  wreaths ;  to  be 
parts  of  eternal  fetes  champUres.  Don't  you  see  how 
bored  they  look?  When  I  first  came  to  Italy  I 
should  have  detested  and  ridiculed  their  bad  art ; 
but  now  they  're  exquisite — the  worse,  the  better." 

"  I  don't  know  what  in  the  world  you  do  mean," 
said  Imogene,  laughing  uneasily. 

"Mrs.  Bowen  would.  It's  a  pity  Mrs.  Bowen 
isn't  here  with  us.  Miss  Effie,  if  I  lift  you  up  to  one 
of  those  statues,  will  you  kindly  ask  it  if  it  doesn't 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  101 

remember  a  young  American  signer  who  was  here 
just  before  the  French  Revolution  1  I  don't  believe 
it 's  forgotten  me." 

"No,  no,"  said  Imogene.  "It's  time  we  were 
walking  back.  Don't  you  like  Scott !"  she  added. 
"  I  should  think  you  would  if  you  like  those  roman- 
tic things.  I  used  to  like  Scott  so  much.  When  I 
was  fifteen  I  wouldn't  read  anything  but  Scott. 
Don't  you  like  Thackeray  1  Oh,  he 's  so  cynical ! 
It's  perfectly  delightful." 

"Cynicall"  repeated  Colville  thoughtfully..  "I 
was  looking  into  The  Nciccomes  the  other  day,  and  I 
thought  he  was  rather  sentimental." 

"  Sentimental !  Why,  what  an  idea  !  That  is 
the  strangest  thing  I  ever  heard  of.  Oh  ! "  she 
broke  in  upon  her  own  amazement,  "  don't  you  think 
Browning's  '  Statue  and  the  Bust '  is  splendid  ?  Mr. 
Morton  read  it  to  us — to  Mrs.  Bowen,  I  mean." 

Colville  resented  this  freedom  of  Mr.  Morton's,  he 
did  not  know  just  why  ;  then  his  pique  was  lost  in 
sarcastic  recollection  of  the  time  when  he  too  used  to 
read  poems  to  ladies.  He  had  read  that  poem  to 
Lina  Ridgely  and  the  other  one. 

"Mrs.  Bowen  asked  him  to  read  it,"  Imogene 
continued. 

"Did  she  1 "  asked  Colville  pensively. 

"  And  then  we  discussed  it  afterward.  We  had 
a  long  discussion.  And  then  he  read  us  the  '  Legend 
of  Pornic,'  and  we  had  a  discussion  about  that.  Mrs. 
Bowen  says  it  was  real  gold  they  found  in  the 
coffin  ;  but  I  think  it  was  the  girl's  '  gold  hair.'  I 


102  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

don't  know  which  Mr.  Morton  thought.  Which  do 
you  1  Don't  you  think  the  *  Legend  of  Pornic  '  is 
splendid  1 " 

"  Yes,  it 's  a  great  poem,  and  deep,"  said  Colville. 
They  had  come  to  a  place  where  the  hank  sloped 
invitingly  to  the  river.  "  Miss  Effie,"  he  asked, 
"wouldn't  you  like  to  go  down  and  throw  stones 
into  the  Arno  1  That 's  what  a  river  is  for,"  he 
added,  as  the  child  glanced  toward  Imogene  for 
authorisation,  "to  have  stones  thrown  into  it." 

"  Oh,  let  us !  "  cried  Imogene,  rushing  down  to 
the  brink.  "  I  don't  want  to  throw  stones  into  it, 
but  to  get  near  it — to  get  near  to  any  bit  of  nature. 
They  do  pen  you  up  so  from  it  in  Europe  ! "  She 
stood  and  watched  Colville  skim  stones  over  the 
current.  "  When  you  stand  by  the  shore  of  a  swift 
river  like  this,  or  near  a  railroad  train  when  it  comes 
whirling  by,  don't  you  ever  have  a  morbid  impulse 
to  fling  yourself  forward  ?  " 

"  Not  at  my  time  of  life,"  said  Colville,  stooping 
to  select  a  flat  stone.  "  Morbid  impulses  are  one  of 
the  luxuries  of  youth."  He  threw  the  stone,  which 
skipped  triumphantly  far  out  into  the  stream. 
"  That  was  beautiful,  wasn't  it,  Miss  Effie  1 " 

"  Lovely  ! "  murmured  the  child. 

He  offered  her  a  flat  pebble.  "  Would  you  like 
to  try  one  1 " 

"It  would  spoil  my  gloves,"  she  said,  in  depre- 
cating refusal. 

"Let  me  try  it!"  cried  Imogene.  "I'm  not 
afraid  of  my  gloves." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  103 

Colville  yielded  the  pebble,  looking  at  her  with 
the  thought  of  how  intoxicating  he  should  once 
have  found  this  bit  of  wilful  abandon,  but  feeling 
rather  sorry  for  it  now.  "  Oh,  perhaps  not  1 "  he 
said,  laying  his  hand  upon  hers,  and  looking  into 
her  eyes. 

She  returned  his  look,  and  then  she  dropped  the 
pebble  and  put  her  hand  back  in  her  muff,  and 
turned  and  ran  up  the  bank.  "  There 's  the  carriage. 
It's  time  we  should  be  going."  At  the  top  of  the 
bank  she  became  a  mirror  of  dignity,  a  transparent 
mirror  to  his  eye.  "  Are  you  going  back  to  town, 
Mr.  Colville  1 "  she  asked,  with  formal  state.  "  We 
could  set  you  down  anywhere  !" 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Graham.  I  shall  be  glad  to 
avail  myself  of  your  very  kind  offer.  Allow  me." 
He  handed  her  ceremoniously  to  the  carriage  ;  he 
handed  Effie  Bowen  even  more  ceremoniously  to  the 
carriage,  holding  his  hat  in  one  hand  while  he  offered 
the  other.  Then  he  mounted  to  the  seat  in  front  of 
them.  "  The  weather  has  changed,"  he  said. 

Imogene  hid  her  face  in  her  muff,  and  Effie  Bowen 
bowed  hers  against  Imogene's  shoulder. 

A  sense  of  the  girl's  beauty  lingered  in  Colville's 
thought  all  day,  and  recurred  t  to  him  again  and 
again  ;  and  the  ambitious  intensity  and  enthusiasm 
of  her  talk  came  back  in  touches  of  amusement  and 
compassion.  How  divinely  young  it  all  was,  and 
how  lovely  !  He  patronised  it  from  a  height  far 
aloof. 

He  was  not  in  the  frame  of  mind  for  the  hotel 


104  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

table,  and  he  went  to  lunch  at  a  restaurant.  He 
chose  a  simple  trattoria,  the  first  he  came  to,  and  he 
took  his  seat  at  one  of  the  bare,  rude  tables,  where 
the  joint  saucers  for  pepper  and  salt,  and  a  small 
glass  for  toothpicks,  with  a  much-scraped  porcelain 
box  for  matches,  expressed  an  imcorrupted  Florenti- 
nity  of  custom.  But  when  he  gave  his  order  in  off- 
hand Italian,  the  waiter  answered  in  the  French 
which  waiters  get  together  for  the  traveller's  con- 
fusion in  Italy,  and  he  resigned  himself  to  whatever 
chance  of  acquaintance  might  befall  him.  The  place 
had  a  companionable  smell  of  stale  tobacco,  and  the 
dim  light  showed  him  on  the  walls  of  a  space 
dropped  a  step  or  two  lower,  at  the  end  of  the  room, 
a  variety  of  sketches  and  caricatures.  A  waiter  was 
laying  a  large  table  in  this  space,  and  when  Colville 
came  up  to  examine  the  drawings  he  jostled  him, 
with  due  apologies,  in  the  haste  of  a  man  working 
against  time  for  masters  who  will  brook  no  delay. 
He  was  hurrying  still  when  a  party  of  young  men 
came  in  and  took  their  places  at  the  table,  and  be<gan 
to  rough  him  for  his  delay.  Colville  could  recognise 
several  of  them  in  the  vigorous  burlesques  on  the 
walls,  and  as  others  dropped  in  the  grotesque  por- 
traitures made  him  feel  as  if  he  had  seen  them 
before.  They  all  talked  at  once,  each  man  of  his 
own  interests,  except  when  they  joined  in  a  shout  of 
mockery  and  welcome  for  some  new-comer.  Col- 
ville, at  his  risotto,  almost  the  room's  length  away, 
could  hear  what  they  thought,  one  and  another,  of 
Botticelli  and  Michelangelo  ;  of  old  Piloty's  things 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  105 

at  Munich  ;  of  the  dishes  they  had  served  to  them, 
and  of  the  quality  of  the  Chianti ;  of  the  respective 
merits  of  German  and  Italian  tobacco ;  of  whether 
Inglehart  had  probably  got  to  Venice  yet ;  of  the 
personal  habits  of  Billings,  and  of  the  question 
whether  the  want  of  modelling  in  Simmons's  nose 
had  anything  to  do  with  his  style  of  snoring;  of 
the  overrated  colouring  of  some  of  those  Venetian 
fellows  ;  of  the  delicacy  of  Mino  da  Fiesole,  and  of 
the  genius  of  Babson's  tailor.  Babson  was  there  to 
defend  the  cut  of  his  trousers,  and  Billings  and 
Simmons  were  present  to  answer  for  themselves  at 
the  expense  of  the  pictures  of  those  who  had  called 
their  habits  and  features  into  question.  When  it 
came  to  this  all  the  voices  joined  in  jolly  uproar. 
Derision  and  denial  broke  out  of  the  tumult,  and 
presently  they  were  all  talking  quietly  of  a  recep- 
tion which  some  of  them  were  at  the  day  before. 
Then  Colville  heard  one  of  them  saying  that  he 
would  like  a  chance  to  paint  some  lady  whose  name 
he  did  not  catch,  and  "  She  looks  awfully  sarcastic," 
one  of  the  young  fellows  said. 

"  They  say  she  is"  said  another.  "  They  say  she 's 
awfully  intellectual." 

"  Boston  ? "  queried  a  third. 

"  No,  Kalamazoo.  The  centre  of  culture  is  out 
there  now." 

"  She  knows  how  to  dress,  anyhow,"  said  the  first 
commentator.  "  I  wonder  what  Parker  would  talk 
to  her  about  when  he  was  painting  her.  He 's  never 
read  anything  but  Poe's  '  Ullalume.' " 


106  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  Well,  that  's  a  good  subject—'  Ullalume.J  " 

"  I  suppose  she  's  read  it  1 " 

"She's  read  'most  everything,  they  say." 

"  What 's  an  Ullalume,  anyway,  Parker  ? " 

One  of  the  group  sprang  up  from  the  table  and 
drew  on  the  wall  what  he  labelled  "An  Ullalume." 
Another  rapidly  depicted  Parker  in  the  moment  of 
sketching  a  young  lady  ;  her  portrait  had  got  as  far 
as  the  eyes  and  nose  when  some  one  protested : 
"  Oh,  hello  !  No  personalities." 

The  draughtsman  said,  "Well,  all  right!"  and 
sat  down  again. 

"  Hall  talked  with  her  the  most.  What  did  she 
say,  Hall?" 

"  Hall  can't  remember  wor.ds  in  three  syllables, 
but  he  says  it  was  mighty  brilliant  and  mighty 
deep." 

"  They  say  she  's  a  niece  of  Mrs.  Bowen's.  She 's 
staying  with  Mrs.  Bowen." 

Then  it  was  the  wisdom  and  brilliancy  and  severity 
of  Imogene  Graham  that  these  young  men  stood  in 
awe  of!  Colville  remembered  how  the  minds  of 
girls  of  twenty  had  once  dazzled  him.  "  And  yes," 
he  mused,  "she  must  have  believed  that  we  were 
talking  literature  in  the  Cascine.  Certainly  I  should 
have  thought  it  an  intellectual  time  when  I  was  at 
that  age,"  he  owned  to  himself  with  forlorn  irony. 

The  young  fellows  went  on  to  speak  of  Mrs. 
Bowen,  whom  it  seemed  they  had  known  the  winter 
before.  She  had  been  very  polite  to  them ;  they 
praised  her  as  if  she  were  quite  an  old  woman. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  107 

"  But  she  must  have  been  a  very  pretty  girl,"  one 
of  them  put  in. 

"  Well,  she  has  a  good  deal  of  style  yet." 

"  Oh  yes,  but  she  never  could  have  been  a  beauty 
like  the  other  one." 

On  her  part,  Imogene  was  very  sober  when  she 
met  Mrs.  Bowen,  though  she  had  come  in  flushed 
and  excited  from  the  air  and  the  morning's  adven- 
ture. Mrs.  Bowen  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  placidly 
reading ;  a  vase  of  roses  on  the  little  table  near  her 
diffused  the  delicate  odour  of  winter  roses  through 
the  room  ;  all  seemed  very  still  and  dim,  and  of 
another  time,  somehow. 

Imogene  kept  away  from  the  fire,  sitting  down, 
in  the  provisional  fashion  of  women,  with  her  things 
on;  but  she  unbuttoned  her  pelisse  and  flung  it 
open.  Effie  had  gone  to  her  room. 

"  Did  you  have  a  pleasant  drive  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Bowen. 

"Very,"  said  the  girl. 

"Mr.  Morton  brought  you  these  roses,"  continued 
Mrs.  Bowen. 

"  Oh,"  said  Imogene,  with  a  cold  glance  at  them. 

"  The  Flemmings  have  asked  us  to  a  party 
Thursday.  There  is  to  be  dancing." 

".The  Flemmings  1  " 

"  Yes."  As  if  she  now  saw  reason  to  do  so,  Mrs. 
Bowen  laid  the  book  face  downward  in  her  lap. 
She  yawned  a  little,  with  her  hand  on  her  mouth. 
"  Did  you  meet  any  one  you  knew  1  " 

"Yes  ;  Mr.  Colville."     Mrs.  Bowen  cut  her  yawn 


108  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

in  half.  "  We  got  out  to  walk  in  the  Cascine,  and 
we  saw  him  coming  in  at  the  gate.  He  came  up 
and  asked  if  he  might  walk  with  us." 

"  Did  you  have  a  pleasant  walk  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Bowen,  a  breath  more  chillily  than  she  had  asked  if 
they  had  a  pleasant  drive. 

"  Yes,  pleasant  enough.  And  then  we  came  back 
and  went  down  the  river  bank,  and  he  skipped 
stones,  and  we  took  him  to  his  hotel." 

"  Was  there  anybody  you  knew  in  the  Cascine  1 " 

"  Oh  no  ;  the  place  was  a  howling  wilderness.  I 
never  saw  it  so  deserted,"  said  the  girl  impatiently. 
"  It  was  terribly  hot  walking.  I  thought  I  should 
burn  up." 

Mrs.  Bowen  did  not  answer  anything ;  she  let  the 
book  lie  in  her  lap. 

"  What  an  odd  person  Mr.  Colville  is ! "  said 
Imogene,  after  a  moment.  "  Don't  you  think  he 's 
very  different  from  other  gentlemen  ?  " 

"  Why  1 " 

"  Oh,  he  has  such  a  peculiar  way  of  talking." 

"  What  peculiar  way  1 " 

.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Plenty  of  the  young  men  I 
see  talk  cynically,  and  I  do  sometimes  myself — 
desperately,  don't  you  know.  But  then  I  know  very 
well  we  don't  mean  anything  by  it." 

"  And  do  you  think  Mr.  Colville  does  1  Do  you 
think  he  talks  cynically  ]  " 

Imogene  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  reflected. 
"No,"  she  returned  slowly,  "I  can't  say  that  he 
does.  But  he  talks  lightly,  with  a  kind  of  touch 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  109 

and  go  that  makes  you  feel  that  he  has  exhausted  all 
feeling.  He  doesn't  parade  it  at  all.  But  you  hear 
between  the  words,  don't  you  know,  just  as  you 
read  between  the  lines  in  some  kinds  of  poetry.  Of 
course  it 's  everything  in  knowing  what  he 's  been 
through.  He 's  perfectly  unaffected  ;  and  don't  you 
think  he  's  good  1 " 

"  Oh  yes,"  sighed  Mrs.  Bowen.     "  In  his  way." 

"  But  he  sees  through  you.  Oh,  quite  !  Nothing 
escapes  him,  and  pretty  soon  he  lets  out  that  he  has 
seen  through  you,  and  then  you  feel  so  flat !  Oh, 
it 's  perfectly  intoxicating  to  be  with  him.  I  would 
give  the  world  to  talk  as  he  does." 

"  What  was  your  talk  all  about  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  it  would  have 
been  called  rather  intellectual." 

Mrs.  Bowen  smiled  infinitesimally.  But  after  a 
moment  she  said  gravely,  "Mr.  Colville  is  very 
much  older  than  you.  He 's  old  enough  to  be  your 
father." 

11  Yes,  I  know  that.  You  feel  that  he  feels  old, 
and  it's  perfectly  tragical.  Sometimes  when  he 
turns  that  slow,  dull,  melancholy  look  on  you,  he 
seems  a  thousand  years  old." 

"  I  don't  mean  that  he 's  positively  old,"  said  Mrs. 
Bowen.  "  He 's  only  old  comparatively." 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  understand  that.  And  I  don't  mean 
that  he  really  seems  a  thousand  years  old.  What  I 
meant  was,  he  seems  a  thousand  years  off,  as  if  he 
were  still  young,  and  had  got  left  behind  somehow. 
He  seems  to  be  on  the  other  side  of  some  impassable 


110  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

barrier,  and  you  want  to  get  over  there  and  help 
him  to  our  side,  but  you  can't  do  it.  I  suppose  his 
talking  in  that  light  way  is  merely  a  subterfuge  to 
hide  his  feeling,  to  make  him  forget." 

Mrs.  Bowen  fingered  the  edges  of  her  book. 
"  You  mustn't  let  your  fancy  run  away  with  you, 
Imogene,"  she  said,  with  a  little  painful  smile. 

"Oh,  I  like  to  let  it  run  away  with  me.  And 
when  I  get  such  a  subject  as  Mr.  Colville,  there 's  no 
stopping.  I  can't  stop,  and  I  don't  wish  to  stop. 
Shouldn't  you  have  thought  that  he  would  have 
been  perfectly  crushed  at  the  exhibition  he  made  of 
himself  in  the  Lancers  last  night  ?  He  wasn't  the 
least  embarrassed  when  he  met  me,  and  the  only 
allusion  he  made  to  it  was  to  say  that  he  had  been 
Up  late,  and  had  danced  too  much.  AYasn't  it 
wonderful  he  could  do  it  1  Oh,  if  /  could  do  that !  " 

"  I  wish  he  could  have  avoided  the  occasion  for 
his  bravado,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen. 

"  I  think  I  was  a  little  to  blame,  perhaps,"  said 
the  girl.  "  I  beckoned  him  to  come  and  take  the 
vacant  place." 

"I  don't  see  that -that  was  an  excuse,"  returned 
Mrs.  Bowen  primly. 

Imogene  seemed  insensible  to  the  tone,  as  it  con- 
cerned herself ;  it  only  apparently  reminded  her  of 
something.  "  Guess  what  Mr.  Colville  said,  when  I 
had  been  silly,  and  then  tried  to  make  up  for  it  by 
being  very  dignified  all  of  a  sudden  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     How  had  you  been  silly  1 " 

The  servant  brought  in   some  cards.      Imogene 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  Ill 

caught  up  the  pelisse  which  she  had  been  gradually 
shedding  as  she  sat  talking  to  Mrs.  Bowen,  and  ran 
out  of  the  room  by  another  door. 

They  did  not  recur  to  the  subject.  But  that 
night,  when  Mrs.  Bo  wen  went  to  say  good  night  to 
Erne,  after  the  child  had  gone  to  bed,  she  lingered. 

"Erne,"  she  said  at  last,  in  a  husky  whisper, 
"  what  did  Imogene  say  to  Mr.  Colville  to-day  that 
made  him  laugh  1 " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  child.  "They  kept 
laughing  at  so  many  things." 

"  Laughing  1 " 

"  Yes ;  he  laughed.  Do  you  mean  toward  the 
last,  when  he  had  been  throwing  stones  into  the 
river  1 " 

"  It  must  have  been  then." 

The  child  stretched  herself  drowsily.  "Oh  I 
couldn't  understand  it  all.  She  wanted  to  throw  a 
stone  in  the  river,  but  he  told  her  she  had  better 
not.  But  that  didn't  make  him  laugh.  She  was  so 
very  stiff  just  afterward  that  he  said  the  weather 
had  changed,  and  that  made  us  laugh." 

"  Was  that  all  1 " 

"  We  kept  laughing  ever  so  long.  I  never  saw 
any  one  like  Mr.  Colville.  How  queerly  the  fire 
shines  on  your  face  !  It  gives  you  such  a  beautiful 
complexion." 

"  Does  it  1 " 

"  Yes,  lovely."  The  child's  mother  stooped  over 
and  kissed  her.  "  You  're  the  prettiest  mamma  in 
the  world,"  she  said,  throwing  her  arms  round  her 


112  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

neck.  "  Sometimes  I  can't  tell  whether  Imogene  is 
prettier  or  not,  but  to-night  I  'm  certain  you  are. 
Do  you  like  to  have  me  think  that  ? " 

"  Yes — yes.  But  don't  pull  me  down  so ;  you 
hurt  my  neck.  Good  night." 

The  child  let  her  go.  "  I  haven't  said  my  prayer 
yet,  mamma.  I  was  thinking." 

"Well,  say  it  now,  then,"  said  the  mother  gently. 

When  the  child  had  finished  she  turned  upon  her 
cheek.  "  Good  night,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Bowen  went  about  the  room  a  little  while, 
picking  up  its  pretty  disorder.  Then  she.  sat  down 
in  a  chair  by  the  hearth,  where  a  log  was  still  burn- 
ing. The  light  of  the  flame  flickered  upon  her  face, 
and  threw  upon  the  ceiling  a  writhing,  fantastic 
shadow,  the  odious  caricature  of  her  gentle  beauty. 


VIIL 

IN  that  still  air  of  the  Florentine  winter,  time 
seems  to  share  the  arrest  of  the  natural  forces,  the 
repose  of  the  elements.  The  pale  blue  sky  is  fre- 
quently overcast,  and  it  rains  two  days  out  of  five  ; 
sometimes,  under  extraordinary  provocation  from 
the  north  a  snow-storm  whirls  along  under  the  low 
grey  dome,  and  whitens  the  brown  roofs,  where  a 
growth  of  spindling  weeds  and  grass  clothes  the 
tiles  the  whole  year  round,  and  shows  its  delicate 
green  above  the  gathered  flakes.  But  for  the  most 
part  the  winds  are  laid,  and  the  sole  change  is  from 
quiet  sun  to  quiet  shower.  This  at  least  is  the  im- 
pression which  remains  in  the  senses  of  the  sojourn- 
ing stranger,  whose  days  slip  away  with  so  little 
difference  one  from  another  that  they  seem  really 
not  to  have  passed,  but,  like  the  grass  that  keeps  the 
hillsides  fresh  round  Florence  all  the  winter  long, 
to  be  waiting  some  decisive  change  of  season  before 
they  begin. 

The  first  of  the  Carnival  sights  that  marked  the 
lapse  of  a  month  since  his  arrival  took  Colville  by 
surprise.  He  could  not  have  believed  that  it  was 
H  113 


114  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

February  yet  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  straggling 
maskers  in  armour  whom  he  met  one  day  in  Via 
Borgognissanti,  with  their  visors  up  for  their  better 
convenience  in  smoking.  They  were  part  of  the 
chorus  at  one  of  the  theatres,  and  they  were  going 
about  to  eke  out  their  salaries  with  the  gifts  of  people 
whose  windows  the  festival  season  privileged  them 
to  play  under.  The  silly  spectacle  stirred  Colville's 
blood  a  little,  as  any  sort  of  holiday  preparation  was 
apt  to  do.  He  thought  that  it  afforded  him  a  fair 
occasion  to  call  at  Palazzo  Pinti,  where  he  had  not 
been  so  much  of  late  as  in  the  first  days  of  his  re- 
newed acquaintance  with  Mrs.  Bowen.  He  had  at 
one  time  had  the  fancy  that  Mrs.  Bowen  was  cool 
toward  him.  He  might  very  well  have  been  mis- 
taken in  this ;  in  fact,  she  had  several  times  addressed 
him  the  politest  reproaches  for  not  coming,  but  he 
made  some  evasion,  and  went  only  on  the  days  when 
she  was  receiving  other  people,  and  when  necessarily 
he  saw  very  little  of  the  family. 

Miss  Graham  was  always  very  friendly,  but  always 
very  busy,  drawing  tea  from  the  samovar,  and  look- 
ing after  others.  Effie  Bowen  dropped  her  eyes  in 
re-established  strangeness  when  she  brought  the 
basket  of  cake  to  him..  There  was  one  moment 
when  he  suspected  that  he  had  been  talked  over  in 
family  council,  and  put  under  a  certain  regimen. 
But  he  had  no  proof  of  this,  and  it  had  really 
nothing  to  do  with  his  keeping  away,  which  was 
largely  accidental.  He  had  taken  up,  with  as  much 
earnestness  as  he  could  reasonably  expect  of  himself, 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  115 

that  notion  of  studying  the  architectural  expression 
of  Florentine  character  at  the  different  periods.  He 
had  spent  a  good  deal  of  money  in  books,  he  had  re- 
vived his  youthful  familiarity  with  the  city,  and  he 
had  made  what  acquaintance  he  could  with  people 
interested  in  such  matters.  He  met  some  of  these 
in  the  limited  hut  very  active  society  in  which  he 
mingled  daily  and  nightly.  After  the  first  strange- 
ness to  any  sort  of  social  life  had  worn  off,  he  found 
himself  very  fond  of  the  prompt  hospitalities  which 
his  introduction  at  Mrs.  Bowen's  had  opened  to  him. 
His  host — or  more  frequently  it  was  his  hostess — 
had  sometimes  merely  an  apartment  at  a  hotel ;  per- 
haps the  family  was  established  in  one  of  the  fur- 
nished lodgings  which  stretch  the  whole  length  of 
the  Lung'  Arno  on  either  hand,  and  abound  in  all 
the  new  streets  approaching  the  Cascine,  and  had 
set  up  the  simple  and  facile  housekeeping  of  the  so- 
journer  in  Florence  for  a  few  months ;  others  had 
been  living  in  the  villa  or  the  palace  they  had  taken 
for  years. 

The  more  recent  and  transitory  people  expressed 
something  of  the  prevailing  English  and  American 
sestheticism  in  the  decoration  of  their  apartments, 
but  the  greater  part  accepted  the  Florentine  draw- 
ing-room as  their  landlord  had  imagined  it  for  them, 
with  furniture  and  curtains  in  yellow  satin,  a  cheap 
ingrain  carpet  thinly  covering  the  stone  floor,  and  a 
fire  of  little  logs  ineffectually  blazing  on  the  hearth, 
and  flickering  on  the  carved  frames  of  the  pictures 
on  the  wall  and  the  nakedness  of  the  frescoed  alle- 


116  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

gories  in  the  ceiling.  Whether  of  longer  or  shorter 
stay,  the  sojourners  were  bound  together  by  a  com- 
mon language  and  a  common  social  tradition ;  they 
all  had  a  Day,  and  on  that  day  there  was  tea  and 
bread  and  butter  for  every  comer.  They  had  one 
another  to  dine  ;  there  were  evening  parties,  with 
dancing  and  without  dancing.  Colville  even  went 
to  a  fancy  ball,  where  he  was  kept  in  countenance  by 
several  other  Florentines  of  the  period  of  Romola. 
At  all  these  places  he  met  nearly  the  same  people, 
whose  alien  life  in  the  midst  of  the  native  com- 
munity struck  him  as  one  of  the  phases  of  modern 
civilisation  worthy  of  note,  if  not  particular  study ; 
for  he  fancied  it  destined  to  a  wider  future  through- 
out Europe,  as  the  conditions  in  England  and 
America  grow  more  tiresome  and  more  onerous. 
They  seemed  to  see  very  little  of  Italian  society, 
and  to  be  shut  out  from  practical  knowledge  of  the 
local  life  by  the  terms  upon  which  they  had  them- 
selves insisted.  Our  race  finds  its  simplified  and 
cheapened  London  or  New  York  in  all  its  Conti- 
nental resorts  now,  but  nowhere  has  its  taste  been 
so  much  studied  as  in  Italy,  and  especially  in  Flor- 
ence. It  was  not,  perhaps,  the  real  Englishman  or 
American  who  had  been  considered,  but  a  forestihe 
conventionalised  from  the  Florentine's  observation 
of  many  Anglo-Saxons.  But  he  had  been  so  well 
conjectured  that  he  was  hemmed  round  with  a  very 
fair  illusion  of  his  national  circumstances. 

It  was  not  that  he  had  his  English  or  American 
doctor   to    prescribe   for   Tiim   when    sick,   and   his 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  117 

English  or  American  apothecary  to  compound  his 
potion ;  it  was  not  that  there  was  an  English  tailor 
and  an  American  dentist,  an  English  bookseller  and 
an  English  baker,  and  chapels  of  every  shade  of 
Protestantism,  with  Catholic  preaching  in  English 
every  Sunday.  These  things  were  more  or  less 
matters  of  necessity,  but  Colville  objected  that  the 
barbers  should  offer  him  an  American  shampoo ; 
that  the  groceries  should  abound  in  English  biscuit 
and  our  own  canned  fruit  and  vegetables,  and  that 
the  grocers'  clerks  should  be  ambitious  to  read  the 
labels  of  the  Boston  baked  beans.  He  heard — 
though  he  did  not  prove  this  by  experiment — that 
the  master  of  a  certain  trattoria  had  studied  the 
doughnut  of  New  England  till  he  had  actually  sur- 
passed the  original  in  the  qualities  that  have  under- 
mined our  digestion  as  a  people.  But  above  all  it 
interested  him  to  see  that  intense  expression  of 
American  "civilisation,  the  horse-car,  triumphing 
along  the  magnificent  avenues  that  mark  the  line  of 
the  old  city  walls  ;  and  he  recognised  an  instinctive 
obedience  to  an  abtruse  natural  law  in  the  fact  that 
whereas  the  omnibus,  which  the  Italians  have  de- 
rived from  the  English,  was  not  filled  beyond  its 
seating  capacity,  the  horse-car  was  overcrowded 
without  and  within  at  Florence,  just  as  it  is  with  us 
who  invented  it. 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  even  that,"  he  said  one  day  to 
the  lady  who  was  drawing  him  his  fifth  or  sixth  cup 
of  tea  for  that  afternoon,  and  with  whom  he  was 
naturally  making  this  absurd  condition  of  things  a 


118  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

matter  of  personal  question  ;  "  but  you  people  here 
pass  your  days  in  a  round  of  unbroken  English,  ex- 
cept when  you  talk  with  your  servants.  I  'm  not 
sure  you  don't  speak  English-  with  the  shop  people. 
I  can  hardly  get  them  to  speak  Italian  to  me." 

"Perhaps  they  think  you  can  speak  English 
better,"  said  the  lady. 

This  went  over  Florence ;  in  a  week  it  was  told 
to  Colville  as  something  said  to  some  one  else.  He 
fearlessly  reclaimed  it  as  said  to  himself,  and  this 
again  was  told.  In  the  houses  where  he  visited  he 
had  the  friendly  acceptance  of  any  intelligent  and 
reasonably  agreeable  person  who  comes  promptly 
and  willingly  when  he  is  asked,  and  seems  always  to 
have  enjoyed  himself  when  he  goes  away.  But 
besides  this  sort  of  general  favour,  he  enjoyed  a 
very  pleasing  little  personal  popularity  which  came 
from  his  interest  in  other  people,  from  his  good- 
nature, and  from  his  inertness.  He  slighted  no  ac- 
quaintance, and  talked  to  every  one  with  the  same 
apparent  wish  to  be  entertaining.  This  was  because 
he  was  incapable  of  the  cruelty  of  open  indifference 
when  his  lot  .was  cast  with  a  dull  person,  and  also 
because  he  was  mentally  too  lazy  to  contrive  pre- 
tences for  getting  away ;  besides  he  did  not  really 
find  anybody  altogether  a  bore,  and  he  had  no  wish 
to  shine.  He  listened  without  shrinking  to  stories 
that  he  had  heard  before,  and  to  things  that  had 
already  been  said  to  him ;  as  has  been  noted,  he  had 
himself  the  habit  of  repeating  his  ideas  with  the 
recklessness  of  maturity,  for  he  had  lived  long 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  119 

enough  to  know  that  this  can  be  done  with  almost 
entire  safety. 

He  haunted  the  studios  a  good  deal,  and  through 
a  retrospective  affinity  with  art,  and  a  human  sym- 
pathy with  the  sacrifice  which  it  always  involves,  he 
was  on  friendly  terms  with  sculptors  and  painters 
who  were  not  in  every  case  so  friendly  with  one 
another.  More  than  once  he  saw  the  scaps  of  old 
rivalries,  and  he  might  easily  have  been  an  adherent 
of  two  or  three  parties.  But  he  tried  to  keep  the 
freedom  of  the  different  camps  without  taking  sides  ; 
and  he  felt  the  pathos  of  the  case  when  they  all  told 
the  same  story  of  the  disaster  which  the  taste  for 
bric-a-brac  had  wrought  to  the  cause  of  art;  how 
people  who  came  abroad  no  longer  gave  orders  for 
statues  and  pictures,  but  spent  their  money  on 
curtains  and  carpets,  old  chests  and  chairs,  and  pots 
and  pans.  There  were  some  among  these  artists 
whom  he  had  known  twenty  years  before  in  Flor- 
ence, ardent  and  hopeful  beginners;  and  now  the 
backs  of  their  grey  or  bald  heads,  as  they  talked  to 
him  with  their  faces  towards  their  work,  and  a 
pencil  or  a  pinch  of  clay  held  thoughtfully  between 
their  fingers,  appealed  to  him  as  if  he  had  remained 
young  and  prosperous,  and  they  had  gone  forward 
to  age  and  hard  work.  They  were  very  quaint  at 
times.  They  talked  the  American  slang  of  the  war 
days  and  of  the  days  before  the  war;  without  a 
mastery  of  Italian,  they  often  used  the  idioms  of 
that  tongue  in  their  English  speech.  They  were 
dim  and  vague  about  the  country,  with  whose  affairs 


120  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

they  had  kept  up  through  the  newspapers.  Here 
and  there  one  thought  he  was  going  home  very 
soon ;  others  had  finally  relinquished  all  thoughts 
of  return.  These  had,  perhaps  without  knowing  it, 
lost  the  desire  to  come  back ;  they  cowered  before 
the  expensiveness  of  life  in  America,  and  doubted  of 
a  future  with  which,  indeed,  only  the  young  can 
hopefully  grapple.  But  in  spite  of  their  accumu- 
lated years,  and  the  evil  times  on  which  they  had 
fallen,  Colville  thought  them  mostly  very  happy 
men,  leading  simple  and  innocent  lives  in  a  world 
of  the  ideal,  and  rich  in  the  inexhaustible  beauty  of 
the  city,  the  sky,  the  air.  They  all,  whether  they 
were  ever  going  back  or  not,  were  fervent  Americans, 
and  their  ineffaceable  nationality  marked  them, 
perhaps,  all  the  more  strongly  for  the  patches  of 
something  alien  that  overlaid  it  in  places.  They 
knew  that  he  was  or  had  been  a  newspaper  man ; 
but  if  they  secretly  cherished  the  hope  that  he 
would  bring  them  to  the  dolce  lume  of  print,  they 
never  betrayed  it ;  and  the  authorship  of  his  letter 
about  the  American  artists  in  Florence,  which  he 
printed  in  the  American  Register  at  Paris,  was  not 
traced  to  him  for  a  whole  week. 

Colville  was  a  frequent  visitor  of  Mr.  Waters,  who 
had  a  lodging  in  Piazza  San  Marco,  of  the  poverty 
which  can  always  be  decent  in  Italy.  It  was  bare, 
but  for  the  books  that  furnished  it ;  with  a  table  for 
his  writing,  on  a  corner  of  which  he  breakfasted,  a 
wide  sofa  with  cushions  in  coarse  white  linen  that 
frankly  confessed  itself  a  bed  by  night,  and  two 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  121 

chairs  of  plain  Italian  walnut ;  but  the  windows, 
which  had  no  sun,  looked  out  upon  the  church  and 
the  convent  sacred  to  the  old  Socinian  for  the  sake 
of  the  meek,  heroic  mystic  whom  they  keep  alive  in 
all  the  glory  of  his  martyrdom.  No  two  minds 
could  well  have  been  further  apart  than  the  New 
England  minister  and  the  Florentine  monk,  and  no 
two  souls  nearer  together,  as  Colville  recognised 
with  a  not  irreverent  smile. 

When  the  old  man  was  not  looking  up  some  point 
of  his  saint's  history  in  his  books,  he  was  taking 
with  the  hopefulness  of  youth  and  the  patience  of 
age  a  lesson  in  colloquial  Italian  from  his  land- 
lady's daughter,  which  he  pronounced  with  a 
scholarly  scrupulosity  and  a  sincere  atonic  Massa- 
chusetts accent.  He  practised  the  language  wher- 
ever he  could,  especially  at  the  trattoria  where  he 
dined,  and  where  he  made  occasions  to  detain  the 
waiter  in  conversation.  They  humoured  him,  out 
of  their  national  good-heartedness  and  sympathy, 
and  they  did  what  they  could  to  realise  a  strange 
American  dish  for  him  on  Sundays — a  combination 
of  stockfish  and  potatoes  boiled,  and  then  fried 
together  in  small  cakes.  They  revered  him  as  a 
foreign  gentleman  of  saintly  amiability  and  incom- 
prehensible preferences ;  and  he  was  held  in  equal 
regard  at  the  next  green-grocer's  where  he  spent  every 
morning  five  centessimi  for  a  bunch  of  radishes  and 
ten  for  a  little  pat  of  butter  to  eat  with  his  bread  and 
coffee ;  he  could  not  yet  accustom  himself  to  mere 
bread  and  coffee  for  breakfast,  though  he  conformed 


122  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

as  completely  as  he  could  to  the  Italian  way  of  living. 
He  respected  the  abstemiousness  of  the  race;  he 
held  that  it  came  from  a  spirituality  of  nature  to 
which  the  North  was  still  strange,  with  all  its  con- 
science and  sense  of  individual  accountability.  He 
contended  that  he  never  suffered  in  his  small  deal- 
ings with  these  people  from  the  dishonesty  which 
most  of  his  countrymen  complained  of;  and  he 
praised  their  unfailing  gentleness  of  manner;  this 
could  arise  only  from  goodness  of  heart,  which  was 
perhaps  the  best  kind  of  goodness  after  all. 

None  of  these  humble  acquaintance  of  his  could 
well  have  accounted  for  the  impression  they  all  had 
that  he  was  some  sort  of  ecclesiastic.  They  could 
never  have  understood — nor,  for  that  matter,  could 
any  one  have  understood  through  European  tradi- 
tion— the  sort  of  sacerdotal  office  that  Mr.  Waters 
had  filled  so  long  in  the  little  deeply  book-clubbed 
New  England  village  where  he  had  outlived  most  of 
his  flock,  till  one  day  he  rose  in  the  midst  of  the  sur- 
viving dyspeptics  and  consumptives  and,  following 
the  example  of  Mr.  Emerson,  renounced  his  calling 
for  ever.  By  that  time  even  the  pale  Uriitarianism 
thinning  out  into  paler  doubt  was  no  longer  tenable 
with  him.  He  confessed  that  while  he  felt  the 
Divine  goodness  more  and  more,  he  believed  that  it 
was  a  mistake  to  preach  any  specific  creed  or  doctrine, 
and  he  begged  them  to  release  him  from  their  ser- 
vice. A  young  man  came  to  fill  his  place  in  their 
pulpit,  but  he  kept  his  place  in  their  hearts.  They 
raised  a  subscription  of  seventeen  hundred  dollars 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  123 

and  thirty-five  cents;  another  being  submitted  to  the 
new  button  manufacturer,  who  had  founded  his  in- 
dustry in  the  village,  he  promptly  rounded  it  out  to 
three  thousand,  and  Mr.  Waters  came  to  Florence. 
His  people  parted  with  him  in  terms  of  regret  as 
delicate  as  they  were  awkward,  and  their  love  fol- 
lowed him.  He  corresponded  regularly  with  two  or 
three  ladies,  and  his  letters  were  sometimes  read 
from  his  pulpit. 

Colville  took  the  Piazza  San  Marco  in  on  his  way 
to  Palazzo  Pinti  on  the  morning  when  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  go  there,  and  he  stood  at  the  window 
looking  out  with  the  old  man,  when  some  more 
maskers  passed  through  the  place — two  young  fellows 
in  old  Florentine  dress,  with  a  third  habited  as  a  nun. 

"Ah,"  said  the  old  man  gently,  "I  wish  they 
hadn't  introduced  the  nun  !  But  I  suppose  they 
can't  help  signalising  their  escape  from  the  domina- 
tion of  the  Church  on  all  occasions.  It 's  a  natural 
reaction.  It  will  all  come  right  in  time." 

"You preach  the  true  American  gospel,"  said  Col- 
ville. 

"  Of  course ;  there  is  no  other  gospel.  That  is 
the  gospel." 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  Savonarola  would  think  it 
had  all  come  out  right,"  asked  Colville,  a  little  mali- 
ciously, "if  he  could  look  from  the  window  with  us 
here  and  see  the  wicked  old  Carnival,  that  he  tried 
so  hard  to  kill  four  hundred  years  ago,  still  alive  1 
And  kicking  ? "  he  added,  in  cognisance  of  the  caper 
of  one  of  the  maskers. 


124  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  Oh  yes  ;  why  not  1  By  this  time  he  knows  that 
his  puritanism  was  all  a  mistake,  unless  as  a  thing 
for  the  moment  only.  I  should  rather  like  to  have 
Savonarola  here  with  us ;  he  would  find  these  cos- 
tumes familiar  ;  they  are  of  his  time.  I  shall  make 
a  point  of  seeing  all  I  can  of  the  Carnival,  as  part  of 
my  study  of  Savonarola,  if  nothing  else." 

"  I  'm  afraid  you  '11  have  to  give  yourself  limita- 
tions," said  Colville,  as  one  of  the  maskers  threw  his 
arm  round  the  mock-nun's  neck.  But  the  old  man 
did  not  see  this,  and  Colville  did  not  feel  it  necessary 
to  explain  himself. 

The  maskers  had  passed  out  of  the  piazza  now,  and 
"  Have  you  seen  our  friends  at  Palazzo  Pinti  lately  ?" 
said  Mr.  Waters. 

"Not  very,"  said  Colville.  "I  was  just  on  my 
way  there." 

"  I  wish  you  would  make  them  my  compliments. 
Such  a  beautiful  young  creature." 

"  Yes,"  said  Colville  ;  "  she  is  certainly  a  beautiful 
girl." 

"  I  meant  Mrs.  Bo  wen,"  returned  the  old  man 
quietly. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  you  meant  Miss  Graham.  Mrs. 
Bowen  is  my  contemporary,  and  so  I  didn't  think  of 
her  when  you  said  young.  I  should  have  called  her 
pretty  rather  than  beautiful." 

"  No  ;  she 's  beautiful.  The  young  girl  is  good- 
looking — I  don't  deny  that ;  but  she  is  very  crude 

yet." 

Colville  laughed.     "  Crude  in  looks  1     I  should 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  125 

have  said  Miss  Graham  was  rather  crude  in  mind, 
though  I  'm  not  sure  I  wouldn't  have  stopped  at  say- 
ing young." 

"  No,"  mildly  persisted  the  old  man ;  "  she  couldn't 
be  crude  in  mind  without  being  crude  in  looks." 

"You  mean,"  pursued  Colville,  smiling,  but  not 
wholly  satisfied,  "  that  she  hasn't  a  lovely  nature  1 " 

"  You  never  can  know  what  sort  of  nature  a 
young  girl  has.  Her  nature  depends  so  much  upon 
that  of  the  man  whose  fate  she  shares." 

"  The  woman  is  what  the  man  makes  her  ?  That 
is  convenient  for  the  woman,  and  relieves  her  of  all 
responsibility." 

"  The  man  is  what  the  woman  makes  him,  too,  but 
not  so  much  so.  The  man  was  cast  into  a  deep  sleep, 
you  know " 

"  And  the  woman  was  what  he  dreamed  her.  I 
wish  she  were." 

"  In  most  cases  she  is,"  said  Mr.  Waters. 

They  did  not  pursue  the  matter.  The  truth  that 
floated  in  the  old  minister's  words  pleased  Colville 
by  its  vagueness,  and  flattered  the  man  in  him  by  its 
implication  of  the  man's  superiority.  He  wanted  to 
say  that  if  Mrs.  Bowen  were  what  the  late  Mr. 
Bowen  had  dreamed  her,  then  the  late  Mr.  Bowen, 
when  cast  into  his  deep  sleep,  must  have  had  Lina 
Eidgely  in  his  eye.  But  this  seemed  to  be  person- 
alising the  fantasy  unwarrantably,  and  pushing  it 
too  far.  For  like  reason  he  forbore  to  say  that  if 
Mr.  Waters's  theory  were  correct,  it  would  be  better 
to  begin  with  some  one  whom  nobody  else  had 


126  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

dreamed  before ;  then  you  could  be  sure  at  least  of 
not  having  a  wife  to  somebody  else's  mind  rather 
than  your  own.  Once  on  his  way  to  Palazzo  Pinti, 
he  stopped,  arrested  by  a  thought  that  had  not 
occurred  to  him  before  in  relation  to  what  Mr. 
Waters  had  been  saying,  and  then  pushed  on  with 
the  sense  of  security  which  is  the  compensation  the 
possession  of  the  initiative  brings  to  our  sex  along 
with  many  responsibilities.  In  the  enjoyment  of  this, 
no  man  stops  to  consider  the  other  side,  which  must 
wait  his  initiative,  however  they  mean  to  meet  it. 

In  the  Por  San  Maria  Colville  found  masks  and 
dominoes  filling  the  shop  windows  and  dangling 
from  the  doors.  A  devil  in  red  and  a  clown  in 
white  crossed  the  way  in  front  of  him  from  an  in- 
tersecting street;  several  children  in  pretty  mas- 
querading dresses  flashed  in  and  out  among  the 
crowd.  He  hurried  to  the  Lung'  Arno,  and  reached 
the  palace  where  Mrs.  Bowen  lived,  with  these  holi- 
day sights  fresh  in  his  mind.  Imogene  turned  to  meet 
him  at  the  door  of  the  apartment,  running  from  the 
window  where  she  had  left  Effie  Bowen  still  gazing. 

"We  saw  you  coming,"  she  said  gaily,  without 
waiting  to  exchange  formal  greetings.  "  We  didn't 
know  at  first  but  it  might  be  somebody  else  dis- 
guised as  you.  We  've  been  watching  the  maskers 
go  by.  Isn't  it  exciting  1 " 

"Awfully,"  said  Colville,  going  to  the  window 
with  her,  and  putting  his  arm  on  Effie's  shoulder, 
where  she  knelt  in  a  chair  looking  out.  "What 
have  you  seen  ? " 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  127 

"  Oh,  only  two  Spanish  students  with  mandolins," 
said  Imogene ;  "  but  you  can  see  they  're  beginning 
to  come." 

"  They  '11  stop  now,"  murmured  Effie,  with  gentle 
disappointment;  ",it's  commencing  to  rain." 

"  Oh,  too  bad  ! "  wailed  the  young  girl.  But  just 
then  two  medieval  men-at-arms  came  in  sight,  carry- 
ing umbrellas.  "Isn't  that  too  delicious?  Um- 
brellas and  chain-armour ! " 

"  You  can't  expect  them  to  let  their  chain-armour 
get  rusty,"  said  Colville.  "  You  ought  to  have  been 
with  me — minstrels  in  scale-armour,  Florentines  of 
Savonarola's  times,  nuns,  clowns,  demons,  fairies — 
no  end  to  them." 

"  It 's  very  well  saying  we  ought  to  have  been 
with  you  ;  but  we  can't  go  anywhere  alone." 

"  I  didn't  say  alone,"  said  Colville.  "  Don't  you 
think  Mrs.  Bowen  would  trust  you  with  me  to  see 
these  Carnival  beginnings  1  "  He  had  not  meant  at 
all  to  do  anything  of  this  kind,  but  that  had  not 
prevented  his  doing  it. 

"  How  do  we  know,  when  she  hasn't  been  asked  ?" 
said  Imogene,  with  a  touch  of  burlesque  dolor,  such 
as  makes  a  dignified  girl  enchanting,  when  she  per- 
mits it  to  herself.  She  took  Effie's  hand  in  hers,  the 
child  having  faced  round  from  the  window,  and 
stood  smoothing  it,  with  her  lovely  head  patheti- 
cally tilted  on  one  side. 

"  What  haven't  I  been  asked  yet  ? "  demanded 
Mrs.  Bowen,  coming  lightly  toward  them  from  a 
door  at  the  side  of  the  salon.  She  gave  her  hand 


128  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

to  Colville  with  the  prettiest  grace,  and  a  cordiality 
that  brought  a  flush  to  her  cheek.  There  had  really 
been  nothing  between  them  but  a  little  unreasoned 
coolness,  if  it  were  even  so  much  as  that ;  say 
rather  a  dryness,  aggravated  by  time  and  absence, 
and  now,  as  friends  do,  after  a  thing  of  that  kind, 
they  were  suddenly  glad  to  be  good  to  each  other. 

"Why,  you  haven't  been  asked  how  you  have 
been  this  long  time,"  said  Colville. 

"I  have  been  wanting  to  tell  you  for  a  whole 
week/'  returned  Mrs.  Bowen,  seating  the  rest  and 
taking  a  chair  for  herself.  "  Where  have  you 
been  ? " 

"  Oh,  shut  up  in  my  cell  at  Hotel  d'Atene,  writing 
a  short  history  of  the  Florentine  people  for  Miss 
Effie." 

"Effie,  take  Mr.  Colville's  hat,"  said  her  mother. 
"  We  're  going  to  make  you  stay  to  lunch,"  she  ex- 
plained to  him. 

"  Is  that  so  ? "  he  asked,  with  an  effect  of  polite 
curiosity. 

"Yes."  Imogene  softly  clapped  her  hands,  un- 
seen by  Mrs.  Bowen,  for  Colville's  instruction  that 
all  was  going  well.  If  it  delights  women  to  pet  an 
undangerous  friend  of  our  sex,  to  use  him  like  one 
of  themselves,  there  are  no  words  to  paint  the  soft 
and  flattered  content  with  which  his  spirit  purrs 
under  their  caresses.  "You  must  have  nearly 
finished  the  history,"  added  Mrs.  Bowen. 

"Well,  I  could  have  finished  it,"  said  Colville, 
"  if  I  had  only  begun  it.  You  see,  writing  a  short 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  129 

history  of  the  Florentine  people  is  such  quick  work 
that  you  have  to  be  careful  how  you  actually  put 
pen  to  paper,  or  you're  through  with  it  before 
you've  had  any  fun  out  of  it." 

"I  think  Effie  will  like  to  read  that  kind  of 
history,"  said  her  mother. 

The  child  hung  her  head,  and  would  not  look  at 
Colville;  she  was  still  shy  with  him;  his  absence 
must  have  seemed  longer  to  a  child,  of  course. 

At  lunch  they  talked  of  the  Carnival  sights  that 
had  begun  to  appear.  He  told  of  his  call  upon  Mr. 
Waters,  and  of  the  old  minister's  purpose  to  see  all 
he  could  of  the  Carnival  in  order  to  judge  intelli- 
gently of  Savonarola's  opposition  to  it. 

"Mr.  Waters  is  a  very  good  man,"  said  Mrs. 
Bo  wen,  with  the  air  of  not  meaning  to  approve  him 
quite,  nor  yet  to  let  any  notion  of  his  be  made  fun 
of  in  her  presence.  "  But  for  my  part  I  wish  there 
were  not  going  to  be  any  Carnival ;  the  city  will  be 
in  such  an  uproar  for  the  next  two  weeks." 

"  O  Mrs.  Bowen ! "  cried  Imogene  reproach- 
fully ;  Effie  looked  at  her  mother  in  apparent  anxiety 
lest  she  should  be  meaning  to  put  forth  an  unques- 
tionable power  and  stop  the  Carnival. 

"  The  last  Carnival,  I  thought  there  was  never 
going  to  be  any  end  to  it ;  I  was  so  glad  when  Lent 
came." 

"  Glad  when  Lent  came  ! "  breathed  Imogene,  in 

astonishment ;  but  she  ventured  upon  nothing  more 

insubordinate,   and   Colville    admired    to   see    this 

spirited  girl  as  subject  to  Mrs.  Bowen  as  her  own 

I 


130  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

child.  There  is  no  reason  why  one  woman  should 
establish  another  woman  over  her,  but  nearly  all 
women  do  it  in  one  sort  or  another,  from  love  of  a 
voluntary  submission,  or  from  a  fear  of  their  own 
ignorance,  if  they  are  younger  and  more  inexperi- 
enced than  their  lieges.  Neither  the  one  passion 
nor  the  other  seems  to  reduce  them  to  a  like 
passivity  as  regards  their  husbands.  They  must 
apparently  have  a  fetish  of  their  own  sex.  Colville 
could  see  that  Imogene  obeyed  Mrs.  Bowen  not  only 
as  a,prottg<te  but  as  a  devotee. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  you  will  have  to  go  through  it 
all,"  sjiid  Mrs.  Bowen,  in  reward  of  the  girl's  ac- 
quiescence. 

"  You  're  rather  out  of  the  way  of  it  up  here," 
said  Colville.  "  You  had  better  let  me  go  about 
with  the  young  ladies — if  you  can  trust  them  to  the 
care  of  an  old  fellow  like  me." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  you're  so  very  old,  at  all 
times,"  replied  Mrs.  Bowen,  with  a  peculiar  look, 
whether  indulgent  or  reproachful  he  could  not  quite 
make  out. 

But  he  replied,  boldly,  in  his  turn :  "I  have  cer- 
tainly my  moments  of  being  young  still;  I  don't 
deny  it.  There's  always  a  danger  of  their  occur- 
rence." 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  with  a  grace- 
ful effect  of  not  listening,  "  that  you  would  let  me 
go  too.  It  would  be  quite  like  old  times." 

"  Only  too  much  honour  and  pleasure,"  returned 
Colville,  "  if  you  will  leave  out  the  old  times.  I  'm 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  131 

not  particular  about  having  them  along."  Mrs. 
Bowen  joined  in  laughing  at  the  joke,  which  they 
had  to  themselves.  "  I  was  only  consulting  an  ex- 
plicit abhorrence  of  yours  in  not  asking  you  to  go  at 
first,"  he  explained. 

"  Oh  yes ;  I  understand  that." 

The  excellence  of  the  whole  arrangement  seemed 
to  grow  upon  Mrs.  Bowen.  "  Of  course,"  she  said, 
"  Imogene  ought  to  see  all  she  can  of  the  Carnival. 
She  may  not  have  another  chance,  and  perhaps  if 
she  had,  he  wouldn't  consent." 

"  I  '11  engage  to  get  his  consent,"  said  the  girl. 
"  What  I  was  afraid  of  was  that  I  couldn't  get  yours, 
Mrs.  Bowen." 

"  Am  I  so  severe  as  that  1 ''  asked  Mrs.  Bowen 
softly. 

"  Quite,"  replied  Imogene. 

"Perhaps,"  thought  Colville,  "it  isn't  always 
silent  submission." 

For  no  very  good  reason  that  any  one  could  give, 
the  Carnival  that  year  was  not  a  brilliant  one. 
Colville's  party  seemed  to  be  always  meeting  the 
same  maskers  on  the  street,  and  the  maskers  did  not 
greatly  increase  in  numbers.  There  were  a  few 
more  of  them  after  nightfall,  but  they  were  then  a 
little  more  bacchanal,  and  he  felt  it  was  better  that 
the  ladies  had  gone  home  by  that  time.  In  the 
pursuit  of  the  tempered  pleasure  of  looking  up 
the  maskers  he  was  able  to  make  the  reflection  that 
their  fantastic  and  vivid  dresses  sympathised  in  a 
striking  way  with  the  architecture  of  the  city,  and 


132  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

gave  him  an  effect  of  Florence  which  he  could  not 
otherwise  have  had.  There  came  by  and  by  a  little 
attempt  at  a  corso  in  Via  Cerratani  and  Via  Torna- 
buoni.  There  were  some  masks  in  carriages,  and 
from  one  they  actually  threw  plaster  confetti ;  half  a 
dozen  bare-legged  boys  ran  before  and  beat  one 
another  with  bladders,  Some  people,  but  not  many, 
watched  the  show  from  the  windows,  and  the  foot- 
ways were  crowded. 

Having  proposed  that  they  should  see  the  Carni- 
val together,  Colville  had  made  himself  responsible 
for  it  to  the  Bowen  household.  Imogene  said, 
"Well  is  this  the  famous  Carnival  of  Florence  1 " 

"  It  certainly  doesn't  compare  with  the  Carnival 
last  year,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen. 

"Your  reproach  is  just,  Mrs.  Bowen,"  he  acknow- 
ledged. "  I  've  managed  it  badly.  But  you  know 
I  've  been  out  of  practice  a  great  while  there  in  Des 
Vaches." 

"Oh,  poor  Mr.  Colville  !"  cried  Imogene,  "He 
isn't  altogether  to  blame." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  humouring  the 
joke  in  her  turn.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  if  he  had 
consulted  us  a  little  earlier,  he  might  have  done 
better." 

He  drove  home  with  the  ladies,  and  Mrs.  Bowen 
made  him  stay  to  tea.  As  if  she  felt  that  he  needed 
to  be  consoled  for  the  failure  of  his  Carnival,  she 
was  especially  indulgent  with  him.  She  played  to 
him  on  the  piano  some  of  the  songs  that  were  in 
fashion  when  they  were  in  Florence  together  before. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  133 

Imogene  had  never  heard  them ;  she  had  heard  her 
mother  speak  of  them.  One  or  two  of  them  were 
negro  songs,  such  as  very  pretty  young  ladies  used 
to  sing  without  harm  to  themselves  or  offence  to 
others  ;  but  Imogene  decided  that  they  were  rather 
rowdy.  "  Dear  me,  Mrs.  Bowen  !  Did  you  sing 
such  songs  1  You  wouldn't  let  Effie  ! " 

"  No,  I  wouldn't  let  Effie.  The  times  are  changed. 
I  wouldn't  let  Effie  go  to  the  theatre  alone  with  a 
young  gentleman." 

"  The  times  are  changed  for  the  worse,"  Colville 
began.  "  What  harm  ever  came  to  a  young  man 
from  a  young  lady's  going  alone  to  the  theatre  with 
him  1 " 

He  stayed  till  the  candles  were  brought  in,  and 
then  went  away  only  because,  as  he  said,  they  had 
not  asked  him  to  stay  to  dinner. 

He  came  nearly  every  day,  upon  one  pretext  or 
another,  and  he  met  them  oftener  than  that  at  the 
teas  and  on  the  days  of  other  ladies  in  Florence ; 
for  he  was  finding  the  busy  idleness  of  the  life  very 
pleasant,  and  he  went  everywhere.  He  formed  the 
habit  of  carrying  flowers  to  the  Palazzo  Pinti,  ex- 
cusing himself  on  the  ground  that  they  were  so 
cheap  and  so  abundant  as  to  be  impersonal.  He 
brought  violets  to  Effie  and  roses  to  Imogene ;  to 
Mrs.  Bowen  he  always  brought  a  bunch  of  the  huge 
purple  anemones  which  grow  so  abundantly  all 
winter  long  about  Florence.  "  I  wonder  why  purple 
anemones  ? "  he  asked  her  one  day  in  presenting 
them  to  her. 


134  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  Oh,  it  is  quite  time  I  should  be  wearing  purple," 
she  said  gently. 

"Ah,  Mrs.  Bo  wen  1"  he  reproached  her.  "Why 
do  I  bring  purple  violets  to  Miss  Effie  1 " 

"  You  must  ask  Effie  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  with  a 
laugh. 

After  that  he  stayed  away  forty-eight  hours,  and 
then  appeared  with  a  bunch  of  the  red  anemones,  as 
large  as  tulips,  which  light  up  the  meadow  grass 
when  it  begins  to  stir  from  its  torpor  in  the  spring. 
"  They  grew  on  purpose  to  set  me  right  with 
you,"  he  said,  "and  I  saw  them  when  I  was  in 
the  country." 

It  was  a  little  triumph  for  him,  which  she  cele- 
brated by  putting  them  in  a  vase  on  her  table,  and 
telling  people  who  exclaimed  over  them  that  they 
were  some  Mr.  Colville  gathered  in  the  country. 
He  enjoyed  his  privileges  at  her  house  with  the 
futureless  satisfaction  of  a  man.  He  liked  to  go 
about  with  the  Bowens ;  he  was  seen  with  the  ladies 
driving  and  walking,  in  most  of  their  promenades. 
He  directed  their  visits  to  the  churches  and  the  gal- 
leries ;  he  was  fond  of  strolling  about  with  Effie's 
daintily-gloved  little  hand  in  his.  He -took  her  to 
Giocosa's  and  treated  her  to  ices  ;  he  let  her  choose 
from  the  confectioner's  prettiest  caprices  in  candy ; 
he  was  allowed  to  bring  the  child  presents  in  his 
pockets.  Perhaps  he  was  not  as  conscientious  as  he 
might  have  been  in  his  behaviour  with  the  little 
girl.  He  did  what  he  could  to  spoil  her,  or  at  least 
to  relax  the  severity  of  the  training  she  had  re- 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  135 

ceived ;  he  liked  to  see  the  struggle  that  went  on 
in  the  mother's  mind  against  this,  and  then  the 
other  struggle  with  which  she  overcame  her  opposi- 
tion to  it.  The  worst  he  did  was  to  teach  Effie 
some  picturesque  Western  phrases,  which  she  used 
with  innocent  effectiveness ;  she  committed  the 
crimes  against  convention  which  he  taught  her 
with  all  the  conventional  elegance  of  her  training. 
The  most  that  he  ever  gained  for  her  were  some 
concessions  in  going  out  in  weather  that  her 
mother  thought  unfit,  or  sitting  up  for  half-hours 
after  her  bed-time.  He  ordered  books  for  her  from 
Gooclban's,  and  it  was  Colville  now,  and  not  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Morton,  who  read  poetry  aloud  to  the  ladies  on 
afternoons  when  Mrs.  Bowen  gave  orders  that  she 
and  Miss  Graham  should  be  denied  to  all  other 
comers. 

It  was  an  intimacy ;  and  society  in  Florence  is  not 
blind,  and  especially  it  is  not  dumb.  The  old  lady 
who  had  celebrated  Mrs.  Bowen  to  him  the  first 
night  at  Palazzo  Pinti  led  a  life  of  active  questions 
as  to  what  was  the  supreme  attraction  to  Colville 
there,  and  she  referred  her  doubt  to  every  friend 
with  whom  she  drank  tea.  She  philosophised  the 
situation  very  scientifically,  and  if  not  very  conclu- 
sively, how  few  are  the  absolute  conclusions  of 
science  upon  any  point ! 

"  He  is  a  bachelor,  and  there  is  a  natural  affinity 
between  bachelors  and  widows — much  more  than  if 
he  were  a  widower  too.  If  he  were  a  widower  I 
should  say  it  was  undoubtedly  mademoiselle.  If  he 


136  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

were  a  little  bit  younger,  I  should  have  no  doubt  it 
was  madame ;  but  men  of  that  age  have  such  an  am- 
bition to  marry  young  girls  !  I  suppose  that  they 
think  it  proves  they  are  not  so  very  old,  after  all. 
And  certainly  he  isn't  too  old  to  marry.  If  he  were 
wise — which  he  probably  isn't,  if  he 's  like  other  men 
in  such  matters — there  wouldn't  be  any  question 
about  Mrs.  Bowen.  Pretty  creature  !  And  so  much 
sense  !  Too  much  for  him.  Ah,  my  dear,  how  we 
are  wasted  upon  that  sex  ! " 

Mrs.  Bowen  herself  treated  the  affair  with  masterly 
frankness.  More  than  once  in  varying  phrase,  she 
said  :  "  You  are  very  good  to  give  us  so  much  of 
your  time,  Mr.  Colville,  and  I  won't  pretend  I  don't 
know  it.  You  're  helping  me  out  with  a  very  hazard- 
ous experiment.  When  I  undertook  to  see  Imogene 
through  a  winter  in  Florence,  I  didn't  reflect  what  a 
very  gay  time  girls  have  at  home,  in  Western  towns 
especially.  But  I  haven't  heard  her  breathe  Buffalo 
once.  And  I  'm  sure  it 's  doing  her  a  great  deal  of 
good  here.  She  's  naturally  got  a  very  good  mind  ; 
she 's  very  ambitious  to  be  cultivated.  She 's  read  a 
good  deal,  and  she 's  anxious  to  know  history  and 
art ;  and  your  advice  and  criticism  are  the  greatest 
possible  advantage  to  her." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Colville,  with  a  fine,  remote 
dissatisfaction.  "  I  supposed  I  was  merely  enjoying 
myself." 

He  had  lately  begun  to  haunt  his  banker's  for  in- 
formation in  regard  to  the  Carnival  balls,  with  the 
hope  that  something  might  be  made  out  of  them. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  137 

But  either  there  were  to  be  no  great  Carnival  balls, 
or  it  was  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  his  banker  ought 
to  know  about  them.  Colville  went  experimentally 
to  one  of  the  people's  balls  at  a  minor  theatre,  which 
he  found  advertised  on  the  house  walls.  At  half- 
past  ten  the  dancing  had  not  begun,  but  the  masks 
were  arriving ;  young  women  in  gay  silks  and  dirty 
white  gloves  ;  men  in  women's  dresses,  with  enor- 
mous hands  ;  girls  as  pages  ;  clowns,  pantaloons,  old 
women,  and  the  like.  They  were  all  very  good- 
humoured;  the  men,  who  far  outnumbered  the 
women,  danced  contentedly  together.  Colville  liked 
two  cavalry  soldiers  who  waltzed  with  each  other  for 
an  hour,  and  then  went  off  to  a  battery  on  exhibition 
in  the  pit,  and  had  as  much  electricity  as  they  could 
hold.  He  liked  also  two  young  citizens  who  danced 
together  as  long  as  he  stayed,  and  did  not  leave  off 
even  for  electrical  refreshment.  He  came  away  at 
midnight,  pushing  out  of  the  theatre  through  a  crowd 
of  people  at  the  door,  some  of  whom  were  tipsy. 
This  certainly  would  not  have  done  for  the  ladies, 
though  the  people  were  civilly  tipsy. 


IX. 


THE  next  morning  Paolo,  when  he  brought  up 
Colville's  breakfast,  brought  the  news  that  there  was 
to  be  a  veglione  at  the  Pergola  Theatre.  This  news 
revived  Colville's  courage.  "  Paolo."  he  said,  "  you 
ought  to  open  a  banking-house."  Paolo  was  used  to 
being  joked  by  foreigners  who  could  not  speak 
Italian  very  well ;  he  smiled  as  if  he  understood. 

The  banker  had  his  astute  doubts  of  Paolo's  in- 
telligence ;  the  banker  in  Europe  doubts  all  news 
not  originating  in  his  house  ;  but  after  a  day  or  two 
the  advertisements  in  the  newspapers  carried  con- 
viction even  to  the  banker. 

When  Colville  went  to  the  ladies  with  news  of  the 
veglione,  he  found  that  they  had  already  heard  of  it. 
"  Should  you  like  to  go  ? "  he  asked  Mrs.  Bowen. 

"  I  don't  know.  What  do  you  think  ? "  she  asked 
in  turn. 

"Oh,  it's  for  you  to  do  the  thinking.  I  only 
know  what  I  want." 

Imogene  said  nothing,  while  she  watched  the  in- 
ternal debate  as  it  expressed  itself  in  Mrs.  Bowen's 
face. 

133 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  139 

"  People  go  in  boxes,"  she  said  thoughtfully ; 
"but  you  would  feel  that  a  box  wasn't  the  same 
thing  exactly  1 " 

"  We  went  on  the  floor,"  suggested  Colville. 

"  It  was  very  different  then.  And,  besides,  Mrs. 
Finlay  had  absolutely  no  sense  of  propriety."  When 
a  woman  has  explicitly  condemned  a  given  action, 
she  apparently  gathers  courage  for  its  commission 
under  a  little  different  conditions.  "  Of  course,  if 
we  went  upon  the  floor,  I  shouldn't  wish  it  to  be 
known  at  all,  though  foreigners  can  do  almost  any- 
thing they  like." 

"  Really,"  said  Colville,  "  when  it  comes  to  that, 
I  don't  see  any  harm  in  it." 

"  And  you  say  go  ?  " 

"  I  say  whatever  you  say." 

Mrs.  Bowen  looked  from  him  to  Imogene.  "  I 
don't  either,"  she  said  finally,  and  they  understood 
that  she  meant  the  harm  which  he  had  not  seen. 

"  Which  of  us  has  been  so  good  as  to  deserve 
this  1 "  asked  Colville. 

"  Oh,  you  have  all  been  good,"  she  said.  "  We 
shall  go  in  masks  and  dominoes,"  she  continued. 
"  Nothing  will  happen,  and  who  should  know  us 
if  anything  did  1 "  They  had  received  tickets  to 
the  great  Borghese  ball,  which  is  still  a  fashion- 
able and  desired  event  of  the  Carnival  to  foreigners 
in  Florence ;  but  their  preconceptions  of  the 
veglione  threw  into  the  shade  the  entertainment 
which  the  gentlemen  of  Florence  offered  to  favoured 
sojourners. 


140  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  Come,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  "  you  must  go  with 
us  and  help  us  choose  our  dominoes." 

A  prudent  woman  does  not  do  an  imprudent 
thing  by  halves.  Effie  was  to  be  allowed  to  go  to 
the  veglione  too,  and  she  went  with  them  to  the 
shop  where  they  were  to  hire  their  dominoes.  It 
would  be  so  much,  more  fun,  Mrs.  Bowen  said,  to 
choose  the  dresses  in  the  shop  than  to  have  them 
sent  home  for  you  to  look  at.  Effie  was  to  be  in 
black;  Imogene  was  to  have  a  light  blue  domino, 
and  Mrs.  Bowen  chose  a  purple  one;  even  where 
their  faces  were  not  to  be  seen  they  considered  their 
complexions  in  choosing  the  colours.  If  you  hap- 
pened to  find  a  friend,  and  wanted  to  unmask,  you 
would  not  want  to  look  horrid.  The  shop  people 
took  the  vividest  interest  in-  it  all,  as  if  it  were  a 
new  thing  to  them,  and  these  were  the  first  foreigners 
they  had  ever  served  with  masks  and  dominoes. 
They  made  Mrs.  Bowen  and  Imogene  go  into  an 
inner  room  and  come  out  for  the  mystification  of 
Colville,  hulking  about  in  the  front  shop  with  his 
mask  and  domino  on. 

"Which  is  which?"  the  ladies  both  challenged 
him,  in  the  mask's  conventional  falsetto,  when  they 
came  out. 

With  a  man's  severe  logic  he  distinguished  them 
according  to  their  silks,  but  there  had  been  time  for 
them  to  think  of  changing,  and  they  took  off  their 
masks  to  laugh  in  his  face. 

They  fluttered  so  airily  about  among  the  pendent 
masks  and  dominoes,  from  which  they  shook  a 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  141 

ghostly  perfume  of  old  carnivals,  that  his  heart 
leaped. 

"  Ah,  you  11  never  be  so  fascinating  again  ! "  he 
cried.  He  wanted  to  take  them  in  his  arms,  they 
were  both  so  delicious;  a  man  has  still  only  that 
primitive  way  of  expressing  his  supreme  satisfaction 
in  women.  "  Now,  which  am  I  ? "  he  demanded  of 
them,  and  that  made  them  laugh  again.  He  had 
really  put  his  arm  about  Effie. 

"  Do  you  think  you  will  know  your  papa  at  the 
veglione  ? "  asked  one  of  the  shop-women,  with  a 
mounting  interest  in  the  amiable  family  party. 

They  all  laughed ;  the  natural  mistake  seemed 
particularly  droll  to  Imogene. 

"  Come,"  cried  Mrs.  Bowen ;  "  it 's  time  we  should 
be  going." 

That  was  true ;  they  had  passed  so  long  a  time  in 
the  shop  that  they  did  not  feel  justified  in  seriously 
attempting  to  beat  down  the  price  of  their  dresses. 
They  took  them  at  the  first  price.  The  woman  said 
with  reason  that  it  was  Carnival,  and  she  could  get 
her  price  for  the  things.  « 

They  went  to  the  veglione  at  eleven,  the  ladies 
calling  for  Colville,  as  before,  in  Mrs.  Bowen's  car- 
riage. He  felt  rather  sheepish,  coming  out  of  his 
room  in  his  mask  and  domino,  but  the  corridors  of 
the  hotel  were  empty,  and  for  the  most  part  dark  ; 
there  was  no  one  up  but  the  porter,  who  wished  him 
a  pleasant  time  in  as  matter-of-fact  fashion  as  if  he 
were  going  out  to  an  evening  party  in  his  dress 
coat.  His  spirits  mounted  in  the  atmosphere  of 


142  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

adventure  which  the  ladies  diffused  about  them  in 
the  carriage;  Effie  Bowen  laughed  aloud  when  he 
entered,  in  childish  gaiety  of  heart. 

The  narrow  streets  roared  with  the  wheels  of  cabs 
and  carriages  coming  and  going ;  the  street  before 
the  theatre  was  so  packed  that  it  was  some  time 
before  they  could  reach  the  door.  Masks  were  pass- 
ing in  and  out;  the  nervous  joy  of  the  ladies  ex- 
pressed itself  in  a  deep-drawn  quivering  sigh.  Their 
carriage  door  was  opened  by  a  servant  of  the  theatre, 
who  wished  them  a  pleasant  veglione,  and  the  next 
moment  they  were  in  the  crowded  vestibule,  where 
they  paused  a  moment,  to  let  Imogene  and  Effie 
really  feel  that  they  were  part  of  a  masquerade. 

"Now,  keep  all  together,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  as 
they  passed  through  the  inner  door  of  the  vestibule, 
and  the  brilliantly  lighted  theatre  flashed  its  colours 
and  splendours  upon  them.  The  floor  of  the  pit  had 
been  levelled  to  that  of  the  stage,  which,  stripped  of 
the  scenic  apparatus,  opened  vaster  spaces  for  the 
motley  crew  already  eddying  over  it  in  the  waltz. 
The  boxes,  tier  over  tier,  blazed  with  the  light  of 
candelabra  which  added  their  sparkle  to  that  of  the 
gas  jets. 

"You  and  Effie  go  before,  said  Mrs.  Bowen  to 
Imogene.  She  made  them  take  hands  like  children, 
and  mechanically  passed  her  own  hand  through  Col- 
ville's  arm. 

A  mask  in  red  from  head  to  foot  attached  him- 
self to  the  party,  and  began  to  make  love  to  her  in 
excellent  pantomime. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  143 

Colville  was  annoyed.  He  asked  her  if  he  should 
tell  the  fellow  to  take  himself  off. 

"Not  on  any  account!"  she  answered.  ".It's 
perfectly  delightful.  It  wouldn't  be  the  veglione 
without  it.  Did  you  ever  see  such  good  acting  1 " 

"  I  don't  think  it 's  remarkable  for  anything  but 
its  fervour,"  said  Colville. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you  making  love  to  some 
lady,"  she  rejoined  mischievously. 

"  I  will  make  love  to  you,  if  you  like,"  he  said, 
but  he  felt  in  an  instant  that  his  joke  was  in  bad 
taste. 

They  went  the  round  of  the  theatre.  "  That  is 
Prince  Strozzi,  Imogene,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  leaning 
forward  to  whisper  to  the  girl.  She  pointed  out 
other  people  of  historic  and  aristocratic  names  in  the 
boxes,  where  there  was  a  democracy  of  beauty 
among  the  ladies,  all  painted  and  powdered  to  the 
same  marquise  effect. 

On  the  floor  were  gentlemen  in  evening  dress, 
without  masks,  and  here  and  there  ladies  waltzing, 
who  had  masks  but  no  dominoes.  But  for  the  most 
part  people  were  in  costume ;  the  theatre  flushed 
and  flowered  in  gay  variety  of  tint  that  teased  the 
eye  with  its  flow  through  the  dance. 

Mrs.  Bowen  had  circumscribed  the  adventure  so 
as  to  exclude  dancing  from  it.  Imogene  was  not  to 
dance.  One  might  go  to  the  veglione  and  look  on 
from  a  box ;  if  one  ventured  further  and  went  on 
the  floor,  decidedly  one  was  not  to  dance. 

This  was  thoroughly  understood  beforehand,  and 


144  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

there  were  to  be  no  petitions  or  murmurs  at  the 
theatre.  They  found  a  quiet  corner,  and  sat  down 
to  look  on. 

The  mask  in  red  followed,  and  took  his  place  at  a 
little  distance,  where,  whenever  Mrs.  Bowen  looked 
that  way,  he  continued  to  protest  his  passion. 

"You're  sure  he  doesn't  bore  you?"  suggested 
Colville. 

"  No,  indeed.     He 's  very  amusing." 

"Oh,  all  right!" 

The  waltz  ceased ;  the  whirling  and  winding  con- 
fusion broke  into  an  irregular  streaming  hither  and 
thither,  up  and  down.  They  began  to  pick  out 
costumes  and  characters  that  interested  them. 
Clowns  in  white,  with  big  noses,  and  harlequins  in 
their  motley,  with  flat  black  masks,  abounded. 
There  were  some  admirable  grasshoppers  in  green, 
with  long  antennae  quivering  from  their  foreheads. 
Two  or  three  Mephistos  reddened  through  the 
crowd.  Several  knights  in  armour  got  about  with 
difficulty,  apparently  burdened  by  their  greaves  and 
breastplates. 

A  group  of  leaping  and  dancing  masks  gathered 
around  a  young  man  in  evening  dress,  with  long 
hair,  who  stood  leaning  against  a  pillar  near  them, 
and  who  underwent  their  mockeries  with  a  smile  of 
patience,  half  amused,  half  tormented. 

When  they  grew  tired  of  baiting  him,  and  were 
looking  about  for  other  prey,  the  red  mask  re- 
doubled his  show  of  devotion  to  Mrs.  Bowen,  and 
the  other  masks  began  to  flock  round  and  approve. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  145 

"  Oh,  now"  she  said,  with  a  little  embarrassed 
laugh,  in  which  there  was  no  displeasure,  "  I  think 
you  may  ask  him  to  go  away.  But  don't  be  harsh 
with  him,"  she  added,  at  a  brusque  movement  which 
Colville  made  toward  the  mask. 

"  Oh,  why  should  I  be  harsh  with  him  1  We  're 
not  rivals."  This  was  not  in  good  taste  either,  Col- 
ville felt.  "  Besides,  I  'm  an  Italian  too,"  he  said, 
to  retrieve  himself.  He  made  a  few  paces  toward 
the  mask,  and  said  in  a  low  tone,  with  gentle  sug- 
gestion, "  Madame  finds  herself  a  little  incommoded." 

The  mask  threw  himself  into  an  attitude  of  bur- 
lesque despair,  bowed  low  with  his  hand  on  His 
heart,  in  token  of  submission,  and  vanished  into 
the  crowd.  The  rest  dispersed  with  cries  of  ap- 
plause. 

"  How  very  prettily  you  did  it,  both  of  you  ! " 
said  Mrs.  Bowen.  "  I  begin  to  believe  you  are  an 
Italian,  Mr.  Colville.  I  shall  be  afraid  of  you." 

"  You  weren't  afraid  of  him." 

"  Oh,  he  was  a  real  Italian." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  mamma  is  getting  all  the 
good  of  the  veglione,"  said  Effie,  in  a  plaintive  mur- 
mur. The  well-disciplined  child  must  have  suffered 
deeply  before  she  lifted  this  seditious  voice. 

"Why,  so  I  am,  Effie,"  answered  her  mother, 
"  and  I  don't  think  it 's  fair  myself.  What  shall  we 
do  about  it  1 " 

"  I  should  like  something  to  eat,"  said  the  child. 

"  So  should  I,"  said  Colville.  "  That 's  reparation 
your  mother  owes  us  all.  Let 's  make  her  take  us 
K 


146  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

and  get  us  something.  Wouldn't  you  like  an  ice, 
Miss  Graham  1 " 

"Yes,  an  ice"  said  Imogene,  with  an  effect  of 
adding,  "Nothing  more  for  worlds,"  that  made 
Colville  laugh.  She  rose  slowly,  like  one  in  a 
dream,  and  cast  a  look  as  impassioned  as  a  look 
could  be  made  through  a  mask  on  the  scene  she  was 
leaving  behind  her.  The  band  was  playing  a  waltz 
again,  and  the  wide  floor  swam  with  circling 
couples. 

The  corridor  where  the  tables  were  set  was 
thronged  with  people,  who  were  drinking  beer  and 
eating  cold  beef  and  boned  turkey  and  slices  of  huge 
round  sausages.  "  Oh,  how  can  they  ? "  cried  the 
girl,  shuddering. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  so  ethereal-minded  about 
these  things,"  said  Colville.  "  I  thought  you  didn't 
object  to  the  salad  at  Madame  Uccelli's." 

"  Oh,  but  at  the  veglione  !  "  breathed  the  girl  for 
all  answer.  He  laughed  again,  but  Mrs.  Bowen  did 
not  laugh  with  him ;  he  wondered  why. 

When  they  returned  to  their  corner  in  the  theatre 
they  found  a  mask  in  a  black  domino  there,  who 
made  place  for  them,  and  remained  standing  near. 
They  began  talking  freely  and  audibly,  as  English- 
speaking  people  incorrigibly  do  in  Italy,  where  their 
tongue  is  all  but  the  language  of  the  country. 

"  Eeally,"  said  Colville,  "  I  think  I  shall  stifle  in 
this  mask.  If  you  ladies  will  do  what  you  can  to 
surround  me  and  keep  me  secret,  1 11  take  it  off  a 
moment." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  147 

"I  believe  I  will  join  you,  Mr.  Colville,"  said  the 
mask  near  them.  He  pushed  up  his  little  visor  of 
silk,  and  discovered  the  mild,  benignant  features  of 
Mr.  Waters. 

"  Bless  my  soul ! "  cried  Colville. 

Mrs.  Bowen  was  apparently  too  much  shocked  to 
say  anything. 

"  You  didn't  expect  to  meet  me  here  1 "  asked 
the  old  man,  as  if  otherwise  it  should  be  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world.  After  that  they  could 
only  unite  in  suppressing  their  astonishment.  "It's 
extremely  interesting,"  he  went  on,  "extremely! 
I  Ve  been  here  ever  since  the  exercises  began,  and 
I  have  not  only  been  very  greatly  amused,  but 
greatly  instructed.  It  seems  to  me  the  key  to  a 
great  many  anomalies  in  the  history  of  this  wonder- 
ful people." 

If  Mr.  Waters  took  this  philosophical  tone  about 
the  Carnival,  it  was  not  possible  for  Colville  to  take 
any  other. 

"And  have  you  been  able  to  divine  from  what 
you  have  seen  here,"  he  asked  gravely,  "  the  grounds 
of  Savonarola's  objection  to  the  Carnival  ? " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  the  old  man  promptly.  "  I 
have  seen  nothing  but  the  most  harmless  gaiety 
throughout  the  evening." 

Colville  hung  his  head.  He  remembered  reading 
once  in  a  passage  from  Swedenborg,  that  the  most 
celestial  angels  had  scarcely  any  power  of  perceiving 
evil. 

"  Why  aren't  you  young  people  dancing  ?  "  asked 


148  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Mr.  Waters,  in  a  cheerful  general  way,  of  Mrs. 
Bowen's  party. 

Colville  was  glad  to  break  the  silence.  "Mrs. 
Bo  wen  doesn't  approve  of  dancing  at  vegliones." 

"  No  1 — why  not  ?  "  inquired  the  old  man,  with 
invincible  simplicity. 

Mrs.  Bowen  smiled  her  pretty,  small  smile  below 
her  mask. 

"The  company  is  apt  to  be  rather  mixed,"  she 
said  quietly. 

".Yes,"  pursued  Mr.  Waters;  "but  you  could 
dance  with  one  another.  The  company  seems  very 
well  behaved." 

"  Oh,  quite  so,"  Mrs.  Bowen  assented. 

"  Shortly  after  I  came,"  said  Mr.  Waters,  "  one  of 
the  masks  asked  me  to  dance.  I  was  really  sorry 
that  my  age  and  traditions  forbade  my  doing  so.  I 
tried  to  explain,  but  I  'm  afraid  I  didn't  make  my- 
self quite  clear." 

"Probably  it  passed  for  a  joke  with  her,"  said 
Colville,  in  order  to  say  something. 

"  Ah,  very  likely ;  but  I  shall  always  feel  that  my 
impressions  of  the  Carnival  would  have  been  more 
definite  if  I  could  have  danced.  Now,  if  I  were  a 
young  man  like  you " 

Imogene  turned  and  looked  at  Colville  through 
the  eye-holes  of  her  mask;  even  in  that  sort  of 
isolation  he  thought  her  eyes  expressed  surprise. 

"It  never  occurred  to  you  before  that  I  was  a 
young  man,"  he  suggested  gravely. 

She  did  not  reply. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  H9 

After  a  little  interval,  "  Imogene,"  asked  Mrs. 
Bowen,  "would  you  like  to  dance  1" 

Colville  was  astonished.  "  The  veglione  has  gone 
to  your  head,  Mrs.  Bowen,"  he  tacitly  made  his  com- 
ment. She  had  spoken  to  Imogene,  but  she  glanced 
at  him  as  if  she  expected  him  to  be  grateful  to  her 
for  this  stroke  of  liberality. 

"What  would  be  the  use  ?"  returned  the  girl. 

Colville  rose.  "  After  my  performance  in  the 
Lancers,  I  can't  expect  you  to  believe  me;  but  I 
really  do  know  how  to  waltz."  He  had  but  to  extend 
his  arms,  and  she  was  hanging  upon  his  shoulder, 
and  they  were  whirling  away  through  a  long  orbit 
of  delight  to  the  girl. 

"  Oh,  why  have  you  let  me  do  you  such  injustice  ?" 
she  murmured  intensely.  "I  never  shall  forgive 
myself." 

"  It  grieved  me  that  you  shouldn't  have  divined 
that  I  was  really  a  magnificent  dancer  in  disguise, 
but  I  bore  it  as  best  I  could,"  said  Colville,  really 
amused  at  her  seriousness.  "  Perhaps  you  '11  find 
out  after  a  while  that  I  'm  not  an  old  fellow  either, 
but  only  a  '  Lost  Youth.' " 

"  Hush,"  she  said;  "I  don't  like  to  hear  you  talk  so." 

"How?" 

"About— age!"  she  answered.  "It  makes  me 
feel Don't  to-night !  " 

Colville  laughed.  "  It  isn't  a  fact  that  my  blink- 
ing is  going  to  change  materially.  You  had  better 
make  the  most  of  me  as  a  lost  youth.  I  'm  old 
enough  to  be  two  of  them." 


150  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

She  did  not  answer,  and  as  they  wound  up  and 
down  through  the  other  orbing  couples,  he  remem- 
bered the  veglione  of  seventeen  years  before,  when 
he  had  dreamed  through  the  waltz  with  the  girl  who 
jilted  him  ;  she  was  very  docile  and  submissive  that 
night ;  he  believed  afterward  that  if  he  had  spoken 
frankly  then,  she  would  not  have  refused  him.  But 
he  had  veiled  his  passion  in  words  and  phrases  that, 
taken  in  themselves,  had  no  meaning — that  neither 
committed  him  nor  claimed  her.  He  could  not  help 
it ;  he  had  not  the  courage  at  any  moment  to  risk 
the  loss  of  her  for  ever,  till  it  was  too  late,  till  he 
must  lose  her. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  pre-existence  ? "  he  demanded 
of  Imogene. 

"  Oh  yes  ! "  she  flashed  back  "  This  very  instant 
it  was  just  as  if  I  had  been  here  before,  long  ago." 

"  Dancing  with  me  ? " 

"  With  you  1    Yes— yes— I  think  so." 

He  had  lived  long  enough  to  know  that  she  was 
making  herself  believe  what  she  said,  and  that  she 
had  not  lived  long  enough  to  know  this. 

u  Then  you  remember  what  I  said  to  you — tried 
to  say  to  you — that  night  ]  "  Through  one  of  those 
psychological  juggles  which  we  all  practise  with 
ourselves  at  times,  it  amused  him,  it  charmed  him, 
to  find  her  striving  to  realise  this  past. 

"  No  ;  it  was  so  long  ago  ?  What  was  it  ?  "  she 
whispered  dreamily. 

A  turn  of  the  waltz  brought  them  near  Mrs. 
Bo  wen  ;  her  mask  seemed  to  wear  a  dumb  reproach. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  151 

He  began  to  be  weary ;  one  of  the  differences  be- 
tween youth  and  later  life  is  that  the  latter  wearies 
so  soon  of  any  given  emotion. 

"Ah,  I  can't  remember,  either  !  Aren't  you  get- 
ting rather  tired  of  the  waltz  and  me  1 " 

"  Oh  no ;  go  on  !  "  she  deeply  murmured.  "Try 
to  remember." 

The  long,  pulsating  stream  of  the  music  broke  and 
fell.  The  dancers  crookedly  dispersed  in  wandering 
lines.  She  took  his  arm  ;  he  felt  her  heart  leap 
against  it ;  those  innocent,  trustful  throbs  upbraided 
him.  At  the  same  time  his  own  heart  beat  with 
a  sort  of  fond,  protecting  tenderness  ;  he  felt  the 
witchery  of  his  power  to  make  this  young,  radiant, 
and  beautiful  creature  hang  flattered  and  bewildered 
on  his  talk ;  he  liked  the  compassionate  worship 
with  which  his  tacit  confidence  had  inspired  her, 
even  while  he  was  not  without  some  satirical  sense 
of  the  Crude  sort  of  heart-broken  hero  he  must  be  in 
the  fancy  of  a  girl  of  her  age. 

"  Let  us  go  and  walk  in  the  corridor  a  moment," 
he  said.  But  they  walked  there  till  the  alluring 
melancholy  music  of  the  waltz  began  again.  In  a 
mutual  caprice,  they  rejoined  the  dance. 

It  came  into  his  head  to  ask,  "  Who  is  he  ?  "  and 
as  he  had  got  past  denying  himself  anything,  he 
asked  it. 

"He?    What  he?" 

"  He  that  Mrs.  Bowen  thought  might  object  to 
your  seeing  the  Carnival  ? " 

"  Oh  ! — oh  yes  !     That  was  the  not  impossible  he." 


152  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  Is  that  all  1 " 

11  Yes." 

"  Then  he 's  not  even  the  not  improbable  he  1 " 

"No,  indeed." 

They  waltzed  in  silence.  Then,  "  Why  did  you 
ask  me  that  1 "  she  murmured. 

"  I  don't  know.     Was  it  such  a  strange  question  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     You  ought  to." 

"  Yes,  if  it  was  wrong,  I  'm  old  enough  to  know 
better." 

"  You  promised  not  to  say  '  old  '  any  more." 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  mustn't.  But  you  mustn't  get 
me  to  ignore  it,  and  then  laugh  at  me  for  it." 

"Oh!"  she  reproached  him,  "you  think  I  could 
do  that  ? " 

"You  could  if  it  was  you  who  were  here  with  me 
once  before." 

"Then  I  know  I  wasn't." 

Again  they  were  silent,  and  it  was  he  who  spoke 
first.  "  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  why  you  object  to 
the  interdicted  topic  ?  " 

"  Because — because  I  like  every  time  to  be  perfect 
in  itself." 

"  Oh  !  And  this  wouldn't  be  perfect  in  itself  if  I 
were — not  so  young  as  some  people  1 " 

"  I  didn't  mean  that.  No ;  but  if  you  didn't  men- 
tion it,  no  one  else  would  think  of  it  or  care  for  it." 

"  Did  any  one  ever  accuse  you  of  nattering,  Miss 
Graham?" 

"  Not  till  now.     And  you  are  unjust." 

"  Well,  I  withdraw  the  accusation." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  153 

"And  will  you  ever  pretend  such  a  thing 
again  ? " 

"  Oh,  never  ! " 

"  Then  I  have  your  promise." 

The  talk  was  light  word-play,  such  as  depends 
upon  the  talker's  own  mood  for  its  point  or  its  point- 
lessness.  Between  two  young  people  of  equal  years 
it  might  have  had  meanings  to  penetrate,  to  sigh 
over,  to  question.  Colville  found  it  delicious  to  be 
pursued  by  the  ingenuous  fervour  of  this  young  girl, 
eager  to  vindicate  her  sincerity  in  prohibiting  him 
from  his  own  ironical  depreciation.  Apparently, 
she  had  a  sentimental  mission  of  which  he  was  the 
object ;  he  was  to  be  convinced  that  he  was  unne- 
cessarily morbid ;  he  was  to  be  cheered  up,  to  be 
kept  in  heart. 

"  I  must  believe  in  you  after  this,"  he  said,  with  a 
smile  which  his  mask  hid. 

"  Thanks,"  she  breathed.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
her  hand  closed  convulsively  upon  his  in  their  light 
clasp. 

The  pressure  sent  a  real  pang  to  his  heart.  It 
forced  her  name  from  his  lips.  "  Imogene  !  Ah, 
I  Ve  no  right  to  call  you  that." 

"  Yes." 

"From  this  out  I  promise  to  be  twenty  years 
younger.  But  no  one  is  to  know  it  but  you.  Do 
you  think  you  will  know  it  ?  I  shouldn't  like  to 
keep  the  secret  to  myself  altogether." 

"  No  ;  I  will  help  you.     It  shall  be  our  secret." 

She  gave  a  low  laugh  of  delight.     He  convinced 


154  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

himself  that  she  had  entered  into  the  light  spirit  of 
banter  in  which  he  believed  that  he  was  talking. 

The  music  ceased  again.  He  whirled  her  to  the 
seat  where  he  had  left  Mrs.  Bo  wen.  She  was  not 
there,  nor  the  others. 

Colville  felt  the  meanness  of  a  man  who  has  be- 
trayed his  trust,  and  his  self-contempt  was  the 
sharper  because  the  trust  had  been  as  tacit  and  in- 
definite as  it  was  generous.  The  effect  of  Mrs. 
Bowen's  absence  was  as  if  she  had  indignantly  flown, 
and  left  him  to  the  consequences  of  his  treachery. 

He  sat  down  rather  blankly  with  Imogene  to  wait 
for  her  return  ;  it  was  the  only  thing  they  could  do. 

It  had  grown  very  hot.  The  air  was  thick  with 
dust.  The  lights  burned  through  it  as  through  a 
fog. 

"  I  believe  I  will  take  off  my  mask,"  she  said.  "  I 
can  scarcely  breathe." 

"  No,  no,"  protested  Colville  ;  "  that  won't  do." 

"  I  feel  faint,"  she  gasped. 

His  heart  sank.  "  Don't,"  he  said  incoherently. 
"  Come  with  me  into  the  vestibule,  and  get  a  breath 
of  air." 

He  had  almost  to  drag  her  through  the  crowd, 
but  in  the  vestibule  she  revived,  and  they  returned 
to  their  place  again.  He  did  not  share  the  easy 
content  with  which  she  recognised  the  continued 
absence  of  Mrs.  Bowen. 

"  Why  they  must  be  lost.  But  isn't  it  perfect 
sitting  here  and  watching  the  maskers  ?  " 

"Perfect,"  said  Colville  distractedly. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  155 

"  Don't  you  like  to  make  romances  about  the  dif- 
ferent ones  1 " 

It  was  on  Colville's  tongue  to  say  that  he  had 
made  all  the  romances  he  wished  for  that  evening, 
but  he  only  answered,  "Oh,  very." 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Bowen,"  laughed  the  girl.  "  It  will 
be  such  a  joke  on  her,  with  her  punctilious  notions, 
getting  lost  from  her  prottgte  at  a  Carnival  ball ! 
I  shall  tell  every  one." 

"  Oh  no,  don't,"  said  Colville,  in  horror  that  his 
mask  scarcely  concealed. 

" Why  not?" 

"  It  wouldn't  be  at  all  the  thing." 

"  Why,  are  you  becoming  Europeanised  too  ?  "  she 
demanded.  "  I  thought  you  went  in  for  all  sorts  of 
unconventionalities.  Recollect  your  promise.  You 
must  be  as  impulsive  as  I.  am." 

Colville,  staring  anxiously  about  in  every  direction, 
made  for  the  first  time  the  reflection  that  most  young 
girls  probably  conform  to  the  proprieties  without  in 
the  least  knowing  why. 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  asked,  in  desperation,  "  that 
you  would  be  afraid  to  be  left  here  a  moment  while 
I  went  about  in  the  crowd  and  tried  to  find  them  ?  " 

"Not  at  all,"  she  said.  But  she  added,  "Don't 
be  gone  long." 

"  Oh  no,"  he  answered,  pulling  off  his  mask.     "  Be 
sure  not  to  move  from  here  on  any  account." 
,     He  plunged  into  the   midst   of  the  crowd  that 
buffeted  him  from  side  to  side  as  he  struck  against 
its  masses.      The   squeaking   and   gibbering   masks 


156  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

mocked  in  their  falsetto  at  his  wild-eyed,  naked  face 
thrusting  hither  and  thither  among  them. 

"I  saw  your  lady  wife  with  another  gentleman," 
cried  one  of  them,  in  a  subtle  misinterpretation  of 
the  cause  of  his  distraction. 

The  throng  had  immensely  increased  ;  the  clowns 
and  harlequins  ran  shrieking  up  and  down,  and 
leaped  over  one  another's  heads. 

It  was  useless.  He  went  back  to  Imogene  with  a 
heart-sickening  fear  that  she  too  might  have  van- 
ished. 

But  she  was  still  there. 

"  You  ought  to  have  come  sooner,"  she  said  gaily. 
"  That  red  mask  has  been  here  again.  He  looked 
as  if  he  wanted  to  make  love  to  me  this  time.  But 
he  didn't.  If  you  'd  been  here  you  might  have 
asked  him  where  Mrs.  Bowen  was." 

Colville  sat  down.  He  had  done  what  he  could  to 
mend  the  matter,  and  the  time  had  come  for  philo- 
sophical submission.  It  was  now  his  duty  to  keep 
up  Miss  Graham's  spirits.  They  were  both  Ameri- 
cans, and  from  the  national  standpoint  he  was 
simply  the  young  girl's  middle-aged  bachelor  friend. 
There  was  nothing  in  the  situation  for  him  to  beat 
his  breast  about. 

"  Well,  all  that  we  can  do  is  to  wait  for  them,"  he 
said. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  answered  easily.  "They'll  be 
sure  to  come  back  in  the  course  of  time." 

They  waited  a  half-hour,  talking  somewhat  at 
random,  and  still  the  others  did  not  come.  But  the 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  157 

red  mask  came  again.  He  approached  Colville,  and 
said  politely — 

"  La  signora  k  partita." 

"  The  lady  gone  ?  "  repeated  Colville,  taking  this 
to  be  part  of  the  red  mask's  joke. 

"  La  bambina  pareva  poco  bene." 

"  The  little  one  not  well  ? "  echoed  Colville  again, 
rising.  "  Are  you  joking  1 " 

The  mask  made  a  deep  murmur  of  polite  depre- 
cation. "  I  am  not  capable  of  such  a  thing  in  a 
serious  affair.  Perhaps  you  know  me  1  "  he  said, 
taking  off  his  mask  •,  and  in  further  sign  of  good 
faith  he  gave  the  name  of  a  painter  sufficiently 
famous  in  Florence. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  and  thank  you,"  said  Colville. 
He  had  no  need  to  speak  to  Imogene  *,  her  hand  was 
already  trembling  on  his  arm. 

They  drove  home  in  silence  through  the  white 
moonlight  of  the  streets,  filled  everywhere  with  the 
gay  voices  and  figures  of  the  Carnival. 

Mrs.  Bowen  met  them  at  the  door  of  her  apart- 
ment, and  received  them  with  a  manner  that  justly 
distributed  the  responsibility  and  penalty  for  their 
escapade.  Colville  felt  that  a  meaner  spirit  would 
have  wreaked  its  displeasure  upon  the  girl  alone. 
She  made  short,  quiet  answers  to  all  his  eager  in- 
quiries. Most  probably  it  was  some  childish  indis- 
position ;  Effie  had  been  faint.  No,  he  need  not  go 
for  the  doctor.  Mr.  Waters  had  called  the  doctor, 
who  had  just  gone  away.  There  was  nothing  else 
that  he  could  do  for  her.  She  dropped  her  eyes, 


158  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

and  in  everything  but  words  dismissed  him.  She 
would  not  even  remain  with  him  till  he  could  de- 
cently get  himself  out  of  the  house.  She  left 
Imogene  to  receive  his  adieux,  feigning  that  she 
heard  Effie  calling. 

"  I  'm — I  'm  very  sorry,"  faltered  the  girl,  "  that 
we  didn't  go  back  to  her  at  once." 

"  Yes  •  I  was  to  blame,"  answered  the  humiliated 
hero  of  her  Carnival  dream.  The  clinging  regret 
with  which  she  kept  his  hand  at  parting  scarcely 
consoled  him  for  what  had  happened. 

"  I  will  come  round  in  the  morning,"  he  said.  "  I 
must  know  how  Effie  is." 

"Yes;  come." 


COLVILLE  went  to  Palazzo  Pinti  next  day  with 
the  feeling  that  he  was  defying  Mrs.  Bowen.  Upon 
a  review  of  the  facts  he  could  not  find  himself  so 
very  much  to  blame  for  the  occurrences  of  the  night 
before,  and  he  had  not  been  able  to  prove  to  his 
reason  that  Mrs.  Bowen  had  resented  his  behaviour. 
She  had  not  made  a  scene  of  any  sort  when  he  came 
in  with  Imogene ;  it  was  natural  that  she  should  ex- 
cuse herself,  and  should  wish  to  be  with  her  sick 
child :  she  had  done  really  nothing.  But  when  a 
woman  has  done  nothing  she  fills  the  soul  of  the 
man  whose  conscience  troubles  him  with  an  instinc- 
tive apprehension.  There  is  then  no  safety,  his 
nerves  tell  him,  except  in  bringing  the  affair,  what- 
ever it  is,  to  an  early  issue — in  having  it  out  with 
her.  Colville  subdued  the  cowardly  impulse  of  his 
own  heart,  which  would  have  deceived  him  with  the 
suggestion  that  Mrs.  Bowen  might  be  occupied  with 
Effie,  and  it  would  be  better  to  ask  for  Miss  Graham. 
He  asked  for  Mrs.  Bowen,  and  she  came  in  directly. 

She  smiled  in  the  usual  way,  and  gave  her  hand, 
as  she  always  did ;  but  her  hand  was  cold,  and  she 

159 


160  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

looked  tired,  though  she  said  Effie  was  quite  herself 
again,  and  had  been  asking  for  him.  "  Imogene  has 
been  telling  her  about  your  adventure  last  night, 
and  making  her  laugh." 

If  it  had  been  Mrs.  Bowen's  purpose  to  mystify 
him,  she  could  not  have  done  it  more  thoroughly 
than  by  this  bold  treatment  of  the  affair.  He  bent 
a  puzzled  gaze  upon  her.  "  I  'm  glad  any  of  you 
have  found  it  amusing,"  he  said ;  "I  confess  that  I 
couldn't  let  myself  off  so  lightly  in  regard  to  it." 
She  did  not  reply,  and  he  continued  :  "  The  fact  is, 
I  don't  think  I  behaved  very  well.  I  abused  your 
kindness  to  Miss  Graham." 

"  Abused  my  kindness  to  Miss  Graham  ? " 

"Yes.  When  you  allowed  her  to  dance  at  the 
veglione,  I  ought  to  have  considered  that  you  were 
stretching  a  point.  I  ought  to  have  taken  her  back 
to  you  very  soon,  instead  of  tempting  her  to  go  and 
walk  with  me  in  the  corridor." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen.  "  So  it  was  you  who 
proposed  it?  Imogene  was  afraid  that  she  had. 
What  exemplary  young  people  you  are  !  The  way 
each  of  you  confesses  and  assumes  all  the  blame 
would  leave  the  severest  chaperone  without  a 
word." 

Her  gaiety  made  Colville  uncomfortable.  He 
said  gravely,  "  What  I  blame  myself  most  for  is 
that  I  was  not  there  to  be  of  use  to  you  when 
Effie " 

"  Oh,  you  mustn't  think  of  that  at  all.  Mr. 
Waters  was  most  efficient.  My  admirer  in  the  red 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  161 

mask  was  close  at  hand,  and  between  them  they  got 
Effie  out  without  the  slightest  disturbance.  I  fancy 
most  people  thought  it  was  a  Carnival  joke.  Please 
don't  think  of  that  again." 

Nothing  could  be  politer  than  all  this. 

"  And  you  won't  allow  me  to  punish  jnyself  for 
not  being  there  to  give  you  even  a  moral  support  ?  " 

"Certainly  nok  As  I  told  Imogene,  young 
people  will  be  young  people ;  and  I  knew  how  fond 
you  were  of  dancing." 

Though  it  pierced  him,  Colville  could  not  help 
admiring  the  neatness  of  this  thrust.  "  I  didn't 
know  you  were  so  ironical,  Mrs.  Bowen." 

"Ironical?     Not  at  all." 

"  Ah  !  I  see  I  'm  not  forgiven." 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

Imogene  and  Effie  came  in.  The  child  was  a 
little  pale,  and  willingly  let  him  take  her  on  his 
knee,  and  lay  her  languid  head  on  his  shoulder. 
The  girl  had  not  aged  overnight  like  himself  and 
Mrs.  Bowen ;  she  looked  as  fresh  and  strong  as 
yesterday. 

"Miss  Graham,"  said  Colville,  "if  a  person  to 
whom  you  had  done  a  deadly  wrong  insisted  that 
you  hadn't  done  any  wrong  at  all,  should  you  con- 
sider'yourself  forgiven  1 " 

"  It  would  depend  upon  the  person,"  said  the  girl, 
with  innocent  liveliness,  recognising  the  extrava- 
gance in  his  tone. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  an  affected  pensiveness,  "  so 
very  much  depends  upon  the  person  in  such  a  case." 
L 


162  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Mrs.  Bowen  rose.  "  Excuse  me  a  moment ;  I  will 
be  back  directly.  Don't  get  up,  please,"  she  said, 
and  prevented  him  with  a  quick  withdrawal  to  an- 
other room,  which  left  upon  his  sense  the  impression 
of  elegant  grace,  and  a  smile  and  sunny  glance. 
But  neither  had  any  warmth  in  it. 

Colville  heaved  an  involuntary  sigh.  "Do  you 
feel  very  much  used  up  f  he  asked  Imogene. 

"  Not  at  all,"  she  laughed.     "  Do  you  1 " 

"  Not  in  the  least.  My  veglione  hasn't  ended  yet. 
I'm  still  practically  at  the  Pergola.  It's  easy  to 
keep  a  thing  of  that  sort  up  if  you  don't  sleep  after 
you  get  home." 

"  Didn't  you  sleep  ?  I  expected  to  lie  awake  a 
long  time  thinking  it  over ;  but  I  dropped  asleep  at 
once.  I  suppose  I  was  very  tired.  I  didn't  even 
dream." 

"  You  must  have  slept  hard.  You  're  pretty  apt 
to  dream  when  you're  waking." 

"  How  do  you  know  1 " 

"  Ah,  I  've  noticed  when  you  've  been  talking  to 
me.  Better  not !  It 's  a  bad  habit ;  it  gives  you 
false  views  of  things.  I  used " 

"But  you  mustn't  say  you  used!  That's  for- 
bidden now.  Remember  your  promise  ! " 

"  My  promise  1     What  promise  ? " 

"  Oh,  if  you  Ve  forgotten  already." 

"  I  remember.     But  that  was  last  night." 

"  No,  no  !  It  was  for  all  time.  Why  should 
dreams  be  so  very  misleading  1  I  think  there 's  ever 
so  much  in  dreams.  The  most  wonderful  thing  is 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  163 

the  way  you  make  people  talk  in  dreams.  It  isn't 
strange  that  you  should  talk  yourself,  but  that  other 
people  should  say  this  and  that  when  you  aren't  at 
all  expecting  what  they  say." 

"  That 's  when  you  're  sleeping.  But  when  you  're 
waking,  you  make  people  say  just  what  you  want. 
And  that's  why  day  dreams  are  so  bad.  If  you 
make  people  say  what  you  want,  they  probably  don't 
mean  it." 

"Don't  you  think  so?" 

"  Half  the  time.  Do  you  ever  have  day  dreams  ? " 
he  asked  Effie,  pressing  her  cheek  against  his 
own. 

"I  don't  know  what  they  are,"  she  murmured, 
with  a  soft  little  note  of  polite  regret  for  her  ignor- 
ance, if  possibly  it  incommoded  him. 

"  You  will  by  and  by,"  he  said,  "  and  then  you 
must  look  out  for  them.  They  're  particularly  bad 
in  this  air.  I  had  one  of  them  in  Florence  once  that 
lasted  three  months." 

"  What  was  it  about  I "  asked  the  child. 

Imogen e  involuntarily  bent  forward. 

"Ah,  I  can't  tell  you  now.  She's  trying  to  hear 
us." 

"  No,  no,"  protested  the  girl,  with  a  laugh.  "  I 
was  thinking  of  something  else." 

"  Oh,  we  know  her,  don't  we  1 "  he  said  to  the 
child,  with  a  playful  appeal  to  that  passion  for  the 
joint  possession  of  a  mystery  which  all  children 
have. 

"  We  might  whisper  it,"  she  suggested. 


164  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  No  ;  better  wait  for  some  other  time."  They 
were  sitting  near  a  table  where  a  pencil  and  some 
loose  leaves  of  paper  Jay.  He  pulled  his  chair  a 
little  closer,  and,  with  the  child  still  upon  his  knee, 
began  to  scribble  and  sketch  at  random.  "  Ah, 
there's  San  Miniato,"  he  said,  with  a  glance  from 
the  win-dow.  "  Must  get  its  outline  in.  You  Ve 
heard  how  there  came  to  be  a  church  up  there  ?  No  ? 
Well,  it  shows  the  sort  of  man  San  Miniato  really 
was.  He  was  one  of  the  early  Christians,  and  he 
gave  the  poor  pagans  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  They 
first  threw  him  to  the  wild  beasts  in  the  amphi- 
theatre, but  the  moment  those  animals  set  eyes  on 
him  they  saw  it  would  be  of  no  use  ;  they  just  lay 
down  and  died.  Very  well,  then  ;  the  pagans  de- 
termined to  see  what  effect  the  axe  would  have  upon 
San  Miniato  :  but  as  soon  as  they  struck  off  his  head 
he  picked  it  up,  set  it  back  on  his  shoulders  again, 
waded  across  the  Arno,  walked  up  the  hill,  and  when 
he  came  to  a  convenient  little  oratory  up  there  he 
knelt  down  and  expired.  Jsn't  that  a  pretty  good 
story  ?  It 's  like  fairies,  isn't  it  1 " 

"  Yes,"  whispered  the  child. 

"  What  nonsense  ! "  said  Imogene.  "  You  made 
it  up." 

"Oh,  did  II  Perhaps  I  built  the  church  that 
stands  there  to  commemorate  the  fact.  It 's  all  in 
the  history  of  Florence.  Not  in  all  histories  ;  some 
of  them  are  too  proud  to  put  such  stories  in,  but  I  'm 
going  to  put  every  one  I  can  find  into  the  history 
I'm  writing  for  Effie.  San  Miniato  was  beheaded 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  165 

where  the  church  of  Santa  Candida  stands  now,  and 
he  walked  all  that  distance." 

"  Did  he  have  to  die  when  he  got  to  the  oratory  1" 
asked  the  child,  with  gentle  regret. 

"It  appears  so,"  said  Colville,  sketching.  "He 
would  have  been  dead  by  this  time,  anyway,  you 
know." 

"  Yes,"  she  reluctantly  admitted. 

"I  never  quite  like  those  things,  either,  Effie," 
he  said,  pressing  her  to  him.  "  There  were  people 
cruelly  put  to  death  two  or  three  thousand  years  ago 
that  I  can't  help  feeling  would  be  alive  yet  if  they 
had  been  justly  treated.  There  are  a  good  many 
fairy  stories  about  Florence ;  perhaps  they  used  to 
be  true  stories ;  the  truth  seems  to  die  out  of  stories 
after  a  while,  simply  because  people  stop  believing 
them.  Saint  Ambrose  of  Milan  restored  the  son  of 
his  host  to  life  when  he  came  down  here  to  dedicate 
the  Church  of  San  Giovanni,  Then  there  was 
another  saint,  San  Zenobi,  who  worked  a  very 
pretty  miracle  after  he  was  dead.  They  were  carry- 
ing his  body  from  the  Church  of  San  Giovanni  to 
the  Church  of  Santa  Reparata,  and  in  Piazza  San 
Giovanni  his  bier  touched  a  dead  elm-tree  that  stood 
there,  and  the  tree  instantly  sprang  into  leaf  and 
flower,  though  it  was  in  the  middle  of  the  winter. 
A  great  many  people  took  the  leaves  home  with 
them,  and  a  marble  pillar  was  put  up  there,  with  a 
cross  and  an  elm-tree  carved  on  it.  Oh,  the  case  is 
very  well  authenticated." 

"I  shall  really  begin  to  think  you  believe  such 


166  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

things/'  said  Imogene.  "Perhaps  you  are  a  Catho- 
lic." 

Mrs.  Bowen  returned  to  the  room,  and  sat  down. 

" There's  another  fairy  story,  prettier  yet,"  said 
Colville,  while  the  little  girl  drew  a  long  deep  breath 
of  satisfaction  and  expectation.  "  You  've  heard  of 
the  Buondelmonti  ?  "  he  asked  Imogene. 

"  Oh,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  'd  had  nothing  but  the 
Buondelmonti  dinned  into  me  since  I  came  to 
Florence  1"  she  answered  in  lively  despair. 

"  Ah,  this  happened  some  centuries  before  the 
Buondelmonte  you've  been  bored  with  was  born. 
This  was  Giovanni  Gualberto  of  the  Buondelmonti, 
and  he  was  riding  along  one  day  in  1003,  near  the 
Church  of  San  Miniato,  when  he  met  a  certain  man 
named  Ugo,  who  had  killed  one  of  his  brothers. 
Gualberto  stopped  and  drew  his  sword ;  Ugo  saw 
no  other  chance  of  escape,  and  he  threw  himself  face 
downward  on  the  ground,  with  his  arms  stretched 
out  in  the  form  of  the  cross.  '  Gualberto,  remember 
Jesus  Christ,  who  died  upon  the  cross  praying  for 
His  enemies.'  The  story  says  that  these  words  went 
to  Gualberto's  heart ;  he  got  down  from  his  horse, 
and  in  sign  of  pardon  lifted  his  enemy  and  kissed 
and  embraced  him.  Then  they  went  together  into 
the  church,  and  fell  on  their  knees  before  the  figure 
of  Christ  upon  the  cross,  and  the  figure  bowed  its 
head  in  sign  of  approval  and  pleasure  in  Gualberto's 
noble  act  of  Christian  piety." 

"  Beautiful ! "  murmured  the  girl  j  the  child  only 
sighed. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  167 

"  Ah,  yes  ;  it 's  an  easy  matter  to  pick  up  one's 
head  from  the  ground,  and  set  it  back  on  one's 
shoulders,  or  to  bring  the  dead  to  life,  or  to  make 
a  tree  put  forth  leaves  and  flowers  in  midwinter ; 
but  to  melt  the  heart  of  a  man  with  forgiveness  in 
the  presence  of  his  enemy — that 's  a  different  thing  ; 
that's  no  fairy  story;  that's  a  real  miracle;  and  I 
believe  this  one  happened — it's  so  impossible." 

"  Oh  yes,  it  must  have  happened,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Do  you  think  it 's  so  very  hard  to  forgive,  then  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Bowen  gravely. 

"  Oh,  not  for  ladies,"  replied  Colville. 

She  flushed,  and  her  eyes  shone  when  she  glanced 
at  him. 

"  I  'm  sorry  to  put  you  down,"  he  said  to  the  child ; 
"  but  I  can't  take  you  with  me,  and  I  must  be  go- 
ing." 

Mrs.  Bowen  did  not  ask  him  to  stay  to  lunch ;  he 
thought  afterward  that  she  might  have  relented  as  far 
as  that  but  for  the  last  little  thrust,  which  he  would 
better  have  spared. 

"Erne  dear,"  said  her  mother,  when  the  door 
closed  upon  Colville,  "don't  you  think  you'd 
better  lie  down  a  while  1  You  look  so  tired." 

"  Shall  I  lie  down  on  the  sofa  here  ? " 

"  No,  on  your  bed." 

"Well." 

"  I  '11  go  with  you,  Effie,"  said  Imogene,  "  and  see 
that  you  're  nicely  tucked  in." 

When  she  returned  alone,  Mrs.  Bowen  was  sitting 
where  she  had  left  her,  and  seemed  not  to  have 


168  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

moved.  "  I  think  Effie  will  drop  off  to  sleep,"  she 
said  ;  "  she  seems  drowsy."  She  sat  down,  and  after 
a  pensive  moment  continued,  "  I  wonder  what  makes 
Mr.  Colville  seem  so  gloomy." 

"  Does  he  seem  gloomy  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Bowen  un- 
sympathetically. 

"No,  not  gloomy  exactly.  But  different  from 
last  night.  I  wish  people  could  always  be  the 
same  !  He  was  so  gay  and  full  of  spirits  ;  and  now 
he 's  so  self-absorbed.  He  thinks  you  're  offended 
with  him,  Mrs.  Bowen." 

'•  I  don't  think  he  was  very  much  troubled  about 
it.  I  only  thought  he  was  flighty  from  want  of 
sleep.  At  your  age  you  don't  mind  the  loss  of  a 
night." 

"  Do  you  think  Mr.  Colville  seems  so  very  old  ? " 
asked  Imogene  anxiously. 

Mrs.  Bowen  appeared  not  to  have  heard  her.  She 
went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  When  she 
came  back,  "  Isn't  it  almost  time  for  you  to  have  a 
letter  from  home  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Why,  no.  I  had  one  from  mother  day  before 
yesterday.  What  made  you  think  so  1 " 

"Imogene,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Bowen,  with  a 
sudden  excitement  which  she  tried  to  control,  but 
which  made  her  lips  tremble,  and  break  a  little  from 
her  restraint,  "you  know  that  I  am  here  in  the 
place  of  your  mother,  to  advise  you  and  look  after 
you  in  every  way  ?  " 

"Why,  yes,  Mrs.  Bowen,"  cried  the  girl,  in  sur- 
prise. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  169 

"It's  a  position  of  great  responsibility  in  regard 
to  a  young  lady.  I  can't  have  anything  to  reproach 
myself  with  afterward." 

"  No." 

"  Have  I  always  been  kind  to  you,  and  considerate 
of  your  rights  and  your  freedom  1  Have  I  ever 
interfered  with  you  in  any  way  that  you  think  I 
oughtn't  ?  " 

"  What  an  idea !  You  've  been  loveliness  itself, 
Mrs.  Bowen  ! " 

"  Then  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me,  and  answer  me 
frankly,  and  not  suspect  my  motives." 

"  Why,  how  could  I  do  that  1 " 

"  Never  mind  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Bowen  impatiently, 
almost  angrily.  "  People  can't  help  their  suspicions! 
Do  you  think  Mr.  Morton  cares  for  you  1 " 

The  girl  hung  her  head. 

"  Imogene,  answer  me  ! " 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Imogene  coldly;  "but 
if  you're  troubled  about  that,  Mrs.  Bowen,  you 
needn't  be ;  I  don't  care  anything  for  Mr.  Morton." 

"If  I  thought  you  were  becoming  interested  in 
any  one,  it  would  be  my  duty  to  write  to  your 
mother  arid  tell  her." 

"  Of  course ;  I  should  expect  you  to  do  it." 

"And  if  I  saw  you  becoming  interested  in  any 
one  in  a  way  that  I  thought  would  make  you  un- 
happy, it  would  be  my  duty  to  warn  you." 

"Yes." 

"Of  course,  I  don't  mean  that  any  one  would 
knowingly  try  to  make  you  unhappy  ? " 


170  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"No." 

"Men  don't  go  about  nowadays  trying  to  break 
girls'  hearts.  But  very  good  men  can  be  thought- 
less and  selfish." 

"Yes;  I  understand  that,"  said  Imogene,  in  a 
falling  accent. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  prejudice  you  against  any  one. 
I  should  consider  it  very  wrong  and  wicked.  Be- 
sides, I  don't  care  to  interfere  with  you  to  that 
degree.  You  are  old  enough  to  see  and  judge  for 
yourself." 

Imogene  sat  silent,  passing  her  hand  across  the 
front  of  her  dress.  The  clock  ticked  audibly  from 
the  mantel. 

"  I  will  not  have  it  left  to  me ! "  cried  Mrs. 
Bowen.  "  It  is  hard  enough,  at  any  rate.  Do  you 
think  I  like  to  speak  to  you  1 " 

"No." 

"Of  course  it  makes  me  seem  inhospitable,  and 
distrustful,  and  detestable." 

"  I  never  thought  of  accusing  you,"  said  the  girl, 
slowly  lifting  her  eyes. 

"I  will  never,  never  speak  to  you  of  it  again," 
said  Mrs.  Bowen,  "and  from  this  time  forth  I  insist 
upon  your  feeling  just  as  free  as  if  I  hadn't  spoken." 
She  trembled  upon  the  verge  of  a  sob,  from  which 
she  repelled  herself. 

Imogene  sat  still,  with  a  sort  of  serious,  bewildered 
look. 

"You  shall  have  every  proper  opportunity  of 
meeting  any  one  you  like." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  171 

"Oh  yes." 

"And  I  shall  be  only  too  gl-glad  to  take  back 
everything ! " 

Imogene  sat  motionless  and  silent.  Mrs.  Bovven 
broke  out  again  with  a  sort  of  violence ;  the  years 
teach  us  something  of  self-control,  perhaps,  but  they 
weaken  and  unstring  the  nerves.  In  this  opposition 
of  silence  to  silence,  the  woman  of  the  world  was  no 
match  for  the  inexperienced  girl. 

"Have  you  nothing  to  say,  Imogene  ]  " 

"  I  never  thought  of  him  in  that  way  at  all.  I 
don't  know  what  to  say  yet.  It — confuses  me.  I 
— I  can't  imagine  it.  But  if  you  think  that  he  is 
trying  to  amuse  himself — 

"  I  never  said  that ! " 

"No,  I  know  it." 

"  He  likes  to  make  you  talk,  and  to  talk  with  you. 
But  he  is  perfectly  idle  here,  and — there  is  too  much 
difference,  every  way.  The  very  good  in  him  makes 
it  the  worse.  I  suppose  that  after  talking  with  him 
every  one  else  seems  insipid." 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Bowen  rose  and  ran  suddenly  from  the 
room. 

Imogene  remained  sitting  cold  and  still. 

No  one  had  been  named  since  they  spoke  of  Mr. 
Morton. 


XI. 


COLVILLE  had  not  done  what  he  meant  in  going  to 
Mrs.  Bowen's  ;  in  fact,  he  had  done  just  what  he  had 
not  meant  to  do,  as  he  distinctly  perceived  in  coming 
away.  It  was  then  that  in  a  luminous  retrospect  he 
discovered  his  motive  to  have  been  a  wish  to  atone 
to  her  for  behaviour  that  must  have  distressed  her, 
or  at  least  to  explain  it  to  her.  She  had  not  let  him 
do  this  at  once ;  an  instant  willingness  to  hear  and 
to  condone  was  not  in  a  woman's  nature  ;  she  had  to 
make  him  feel,  by  the  infliction  of  a  degree  of  punish- 
ment, that  she  had  suffered.  But  before  she  ended 
she  had  made  it  clear  that  she  was  ready  to  grant 
him  a  tacit  pardon,  and  he  had  answered  with  a  silly 
sarcasm  the  question  that  was  to  have  led  to  peace. 
He  could  not  help  seeing  that  throughout  the  whole 
Carnival  adventure  she  had  yielded  her  cherished 
reluctances  to  please  him,  to  show  him  that  she  was 
not  stiff  or  prudish,  to  convince  him  that  she  would 
not  be  a  killjoy  through  her  devotion  to  convention- 
alities which  she  thought  he  despised.  He  could  not 
help  seeing  that  he  had  abused  her  delicate  gene- 
rosity, insulted  her  subtle  concessions.  He  strolled 

172 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  173 

along  down  the  Arno,  feeling  flat  and  mean,  as  a 
man  always  does  after  a  contest  with  a  woman  in 
which  he  has  got  the  victory  ;  our  sex  can  preserve 
its  self-respect  only  through  defeat  in  such  a  case.  It 
gave  him  no  pleasure  to  remember  that  the  glamour 
of  the  night  before  seemed  still  to  rest  on  Imogene 
unbroken  ;  that,  indeed,  was  rather  an  added  pain. 
He  surprised  himself  in  the  midst  of  his  poignant 
reflections  by  a  yawn.  Clearly  the  time  was  past 
when  these  ideal  troubles  could  keep  him  awake,  and 
there  was,  after  all,  a  sort  of  brutal  consolation  in  the 
fact.  He  was  forty -one  years  old,  and  he  was  sleepy, 
whatever  capacity  for  suffering  remained  to  him. 
He  went  to  his  hotel  to  catch  a  little  nap  before 
lunch.  When  he  woke  it  was  dinner-time.  The 
mists  of  slumber  still  hung  about  him,  and  the 
events  of  the  last  forty-eight  hours  showed  vast  and 
shapelessly  threatening  through  them. 

When  the  drama  of  the  table  d'hote  reached  its 
climax  of  roast  chestnuts  and  butter,  he  determined 
to  walk  over  to  San  Marco  and  pay  a  visit  to  Mr. 
Waters.  He  found  the  old  minister  from  Haddam 
East  Village,  Massachusetts,  Italianate  outwardly  in 
almost  ludicrous  degree.  He  wore  a  fur-lined  over- 
coat indoors  ;  his  feet,  cased  in  thick  woollen  shoes, 
rested  on  a  strip  of  carpet  laid  before  his  table  ;  a 
man  who  had  lived  for  forty  years  in  the  pungent 
atmosphere  of  an  air-tight  stove,  succeeding  a  quarter 
of  a  century  of  roaring  hearth  fires,  contented  him- 
self with  the  spare  heat  of  a  scaldino,  which  he  held 
his  clasped  hands  over  in  the  very  Italian  manner ; 


174  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

the  lamp  that  cast  its  light  on  the  book  open  before 
him  was  the  classic  lucerna,  with  three  beaks,  fed  with 
olive  oil.  He  looked  up  at  his  visitor  over  his  spec- 
tacles, without  recognising  him,  till  Colville  spoke. 
Then,  after  their  greeting,  "  Is  it  snowing  heavily  1" 
he  asked. 

"  It  isn't  snowing  at  all.  What  made  you  think 
that  .1 " 

"  Perhaps  I  was  drowsing  over  my  book  and 
dreamed  it.  We  become  very  strange  and  interesting 
studies  to  ourselves  as  we  live  along." 

He  took  up  the  metaphysical  consideration  with 
the  promptness  of  a  man  who  has  no  small- talk,  and 
who  speaks  of  the  mind  and  soul  as  if  they  were  the 
gossip  of  the  neighbourhood. 

"  At  times  the  forty  winters  that  I  passed  in 
Haddam  East  Village  seem  like  an  alien  experience, 
and  I  find  myself  pitying  the  life  I  lived  there  quite 
as  if  it  were  the  life  of  some  one  else.  It  seems  incred- 
ible tha.t  men  should  still  inhabit  such  climates." 

"  Then  you  're  not  homesick  for  Haddam  East 
Village  1 " 

"  Ah  !  for  the  good  and  striving  souls  there,  yes  ; 
especially  the  souls  of  some  women  there.  They 
used  to  think  that  it  was  I  who  gave  them  consola- 
tion and  spiritual  purpose,  but  it  was  they  who  really 
imparted  it.  Women  souls — how  beau  tiful  they  some- 
times are  !  They  seem  truly  like  angelic  essences. 
I  trust  that  I  shall  meet  them  somewhere  some  time, 
but  it  will  never  be  in  Haddam  East  Village.  Yes, 
I  must  have  been  dreaming  when  you  came  in.  I 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  175 

thought  that  I  was  by  my  fire  there,  and  all  round 
over  the  hills  and  in  the  streets  the  snow  was  deep 
and  falling  still.  How  distinctly,"  he  said,  closing  his 
eyes,  as  artists  do  in  looking  at  a  picture,  "  I  can  see 
the  black  wavering  lines  of  the  walls  in  the  fields 
sinking  into  the  drifts  !  the  snow  billowed  over  the 
graves  by  the  church  where  I  preached  !  the  banks 
of  snow  around  the  houses  !  the  white  desolation 
everywhere  !  I  ask  myself  at  times  if  the  people 
are  still  there.  Yes,  I  feel  as  blessedly  remote 
from  that  terrible  winter  as  if  I  had  died  away 
from  it,  and  were  in  the  weather  of  heaven." 

"  Then  you  have  no  reproach  for  feeble-spirited 
fellow-citizens  who  abandon  their  native  climate  and 
come  to  live  in  Italy  ?" 

The  old  man  drew  his  fur  coat  closer  about  him  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders  in  true  Florentine  fashion. 
"There  may  be  something  to  say  against  those  who 
do  so  in  the  heyday  of  life,  but  I  shall  not  be  the 
one  to  say  it.  The  race  must  yet  revert  in  its  de- 
crepitude, as  I  have  in  mine,  to  the  climates  of  the 
South.  Since  I  have  been  in  Italy  I  have  realised 
what  used  to  occur  to  me  dimly  at  home — the  cruel 
disproportion  between  the  end  gained  and  the  means 
expended  in  reclaiming  the  savage  North.  Half  the 
human  endeavour,  half  the  human  suffering,  would 
have  made  the  whole  South  Protestant  and  the 
whole  East  Christian,  and  our  civilisation  would 
now  be  there.  No,  I  shall  never  go  back  to  New 
England.  New  England  el  New  Ireland  —  New 
Canada  !  Half  the  farms  in  Haddam  are  in  the 


176  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

hands  of  our  Irish  friends,  and  the  labour  on  the 
rest  is  half  done  by  French  Canadians.  That  is 
all  right  and  well.  New  England  must  come  to 
me  here,  by  way  of  the  great  middle  West  and  the 
Pacific  coast." 

Colville  smiled  at  the  Emersonian  touch,  but  he 
said  gravely,  "I  can  never  quite  reconcile  myself 
to  the  thought  of  dying  out  of  my  own  country." 

"  Why  not  1  It  is  very  unimportant  where  one 
dies.  A  moment  after  your  breath  is  gone  you  are 
in  exile  for  ever — or  at  home  for  ever." 

Colville  sat  musing  upon  this  phase  of  American- 
ism, as  he  had  upon  many  others.  At  last  he  broke 
the  silence  they  had  both  let  fall,  far  away  from  the 
topic  they  had  touched. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  "how  did  you  enjoy  the 
veglione  1 " 

"  Oh,  I  'm  too  old  to  go  to  such  places  for  pleasure," 
said  the  minister  simply.  "But  it  was  very  in- 
teresting, and  certainly  very  striking  :  especially 
when  I  went  back,  toward  daylight,  after  seeing 
Mrs.  Bowen  home." 

"  Did  you  go  back  ? "  demanded  Colville,  in  some 
amaze. 

"  Oh  yes.  I  felt  that  my  experience  was  incom- 
plete without  some  knowledge  of  how  the  Carnival 
ended  at  such  a  place." 

"  Oh  !  And  do  you  still  feel  that  Savonarola  was 
mistaken  1 " 

"  There  seemed  to  be  rather  more  boisterousness 
toward  the  close,  and,  if  I  might  judge,  the  excite- 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  177 

merit  grew  a  little  unwholesome.  But  I  really  don't 
feel  myself  very  well  qualified  to  decide.  My  own 
life  has  been  passed  in  circumstances  so  widely  dif- 
ferent that  I  am  at  a  certain  disadvantage." 

"  Yes,"  said  Colville,  with  a  smile ;  "I  dare  say 
the  Carnival  at  Haddam  East  Village  was  quite 
another  thing." 

The  old  man  smiled  responsively.  "  I  suppose 
that  some  of  my  former  parishioners  might  have  been 
scandalised  at  my  presence  at  a  Carnival  ball,  had 
they  known  the  fact  merely  in  the  abstract ;  but  in 
my  letters  home  I  shall  try  to  set  it  before  them  in 
an  instructive  light.  I  should  say  that  the  worst 
thing  about  such  a  scene  of  revelry  would  be  that 
it  took  us  too  much  out  of  our  inner  quiet.  But  I 
suppose  the  same  remark  might  apply  to  almost  any 
form  of  social  entertainment." 

"  Yes." 

"  But  human  nature  is  so  constituted  that  some 
means  of  expansion  must  be  provided,  or  a  violent 
explosion  takes  place.  The -only  question  is  what 
means  are  most  innocent.  I  have  been  looking 
about,"  added  the  old  man  quietly,  "  at  the  theatres 
lately." 

"  Have  you  1  "  asked  Colville,  opening  his  eyes, 
in  suppressed  surprise. 

"  Yes ;  with  a  view  to  determining  the  degree  of 
harmless  amusement  that  may  be  derived  from 
them.  It's  rather  a  difficult  question.  I  should 
be  inclined  to  say,  however,  that  I  don't  think  the 
ballet  can  ever  be  instrumental  for  good." 
M 


178  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Colville  could  not  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of 
saying,  "Well,  not  the  highest,  I  suppose/' 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Waters,  in  apparent  unconscious- 
ness of  the  irony.  "But  I  think  the  Church  has 
made  a  mistake  in  condemning  the  theatre  in  toto. 
It  appears  to  me  that  it  might  always  have  coun- 
tenanced a  certain  order  of  comedy,  in  which  the 
motive  and  plot  are  unobjectionable.  Though  I  don't 
deny  that  there  are  moods  when  all  laughter  seems 
low  and  unworthy  and  incompatible  with  the  most 
advanced  state  of  being.  And  I  confess,"  he  went 
on,  with  a  dreamy  thoughtfulness,  "  that  I  have 
very  great  misgivings  in  regard  to  tragedy.  The 
glare  that  it  throws  upon  the  play  of  the  passions — 
jealousy  in  its  anguish,  revenge  glutting  itself,  envy 
eating  its  heart,  hopeless  love — their  nakedness  is 
terrible.  The  terror  may  be  salutary ;  it  may  be 
very  mischievous.  I  am  afraid  that  I  have  left  some 
of  my  inquiries  till  it  is  too  late.  I  seem  to  have  no 
longer  the  materials  of  judgment  left  in  me.  If  I 
were  still  a  young  man  like  you " 

"  Am  I  still  a  young  man  ? "  interrupted  Colville 
sadly. 

"  You  are  young  enough  to  respond  to  the  appeals 
that  sometimes  find  me  silent.  If  I  were  of  your 
age  I  should  certainly  investigate  some  of  these 
interesting  problems." 

"  Ah,  but  if  you  become  personally  interested  in 
the  problems,  it 's  as  bad  as  if  you  hadn't  the  mate- 
rials of  judgment  left ;  you  're  prejudiced.  Besides, 
I  doubt  my  youthfulness  very  much." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  179 

"  You  are  fifty,  I  presume  1 "  suggested  Mr. 
Waters,  in  a  leading  way. 

"  Not  very  near — only  too  near,"  laughed  Colville. 
"  I'm  forty-one." 

"  You  are  younger  than  I  supposed.  But  I  re- 
member now  that  at  your  age  I  had  the  same  feeling 
which  you  intimate.  It  seemed  to  me  then  that  I 
had  really  passed  the  bound  which  separates  us  from 
the  further  possibility  of  youth.  But  I  've  lived  long 
enough  since  to  know  that  I  was  mistaken.  At 
forty,  one  has  still  a  great  part  of  youth  before  him 
— perhaps  the  richest  and  sweetest  part.  By  that 
time  the  turmoil  of  ideas  and  sensations  is  over ;  we 
see  clearly  and  feel  consciously.  We  are  in  a  sort  of 
quiet  in  which  we  peacefully  enjoy.  We  have  en- 
larged our  perspective  sufficiently  to  perceive  things 
in  their  true  proportion  and  relation ;  we  are  no 
longer  tormented  with  the  lurking  fear  of  death, 
which  darkens  and  embitters  our  earlier  years ;  we 
have  got  into  the  habit  of  life ;  we  have  often  been 
ailing  and  we  have  not  died.  Then  we  have  time 
enough  behind  us  to  supply  us  with  the  materials  of 
reverie  and  reminiscence ;  the  terrible  solitude  of 
inexperience  is  broken ;  we  have  learned  to  smile  at 
many  things  besides  the  fear  of  death.  We  ought 
also  to  have  learned  pity  and  patience.  Yes,"  the 
old  man  concluded,  in  cheerful  self-corroboration, 
"  it  is  a  beautiful  age." 

"  But  it  doesn't  look  so  beautiful  as  it  is,"  Colville 
protested.  "  People  in  that  rosy  prime  don  t  pro- 
duce the  effect  of  garlanded  striplings  upon  the 


180  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

world  at  large.  The  women  laugh  at  us ;  they 
think  we  are  fat  old  fellows ;  they  don't  recognise 
the  slender  and  elegant  youth  that  resides  in  our 
unwieldy  bulk." 

"  You  take  my  meaning  a  little  awry.  Besides,  I 
doubt  if  even  the  ground  you  assume  is  tenable.  If 
a  woman  has  lived  long  enough  to  be  truly  young 
herself,  she  won't  find  a  man  at  forty  either  decrepit 
or  grotesque.  He  can  even  make  himself  youthful 
to  a  girl  of  thought  and  imagination." 

"  Yes,"  Colville  assented,  with  a  certain  discomfort. 

"  But  to  be  truly  young  at  forty,"  resumed  Mr. 
Waters,  "  a  man  should  be  already  married." 

"  Yes  ? " 

"  I  sometimes  feel,"  continued  the  old  man,  "  that 
I  made  a  mistake  in  yielding  to  a  disappointment 
that  I  met  with  early  in  life,  and  in  not  permitting 
myself  the  chance  of  retrieval.  I  have  missed  a 
beautiful  and  consoling  experience  in  my  devotion 
to  a  barren  regret." 

Colville  said  nothing,  but  he  experienced  a  mixed 
feeling  of  amusement,  of  repulsion,  and  of  curiosity 
at  this. 

"We  are  put  into  the  world  to  be  of  it.  I  am 
more  and  more  convinced  of  that.  We  have  scarcely 
a  right  to  separate  ourselves  from  the  common  lot  in 
any  way.  I  justify  myself  for  having  lived  alone 
only  as  a  widower  might.  I — lost  her.  It  was  a 
great  while  ago." 

"  Yes,"  said  Colville,  after  the  pause  which 
ensued ;  "I  agree  with  you  that  one  has  no  right  to 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  181 

isolate  himself,  to  refuse  his  portion  of  the  common 
lot ;  but  the  effects  of  even  a  rebuff  may  last  so  long 
that  one  has  no  heart  to  put  out  his  hand  a  second 
time — for  a  second  rap  over  the  knuckles.  Oh,  I 
know  how  trivial  it  is  in  the  retrospect,  and  how 
what  is  called  a  disappointment  is  something  to  be 
humbly  grateful  for  in  most  cases ;  but  for  a  while 
it  certainly  makes  you  doubtful  whether  you  were 
ever  really  intended  to  share  the  common  lot."  He 
was  aware  of  an  insincerity  in  his  words ;  he  hoped 
that  it  might  not  be  perceptible,  but  he  did  not 
greatly  care. 

Mr.  Waters  took  no  notice  of  what  he  had  been 
saying.  He  resumed  from  another  point.  "  But  I 
should  say  that  it  would  be  unwise  for  a  man  of 
mature  life  to  seek  his  happiness  with  one  much 
younger  than  himself.  I  don't  deny  that  there  are 
cases  in  which  the  disparity  of  years  counts  for  little 
or  nothing,  but  generally  speaking,  people  ought  to 
be  as  equally  mated  in  age  as  possible.  They  ought 
to  start  with  the  same  advantages  of  ignorance.  A 
young  girl  can  only  live  her  life  through  a  com- 
munity of  feeling,  an  equality  of  inexperience  in  the 
man  she  gives  her  heart  to.  If  he  is  tired  of  things 
that  still  delight  her,  the  chances  of  unhappiness  are 
increased." 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  answered  Colville  gravely. 
"It's  apt  to  be  a  mistake  and  a  wrong." 

"Oh,  not  always — not  always,"  said  the  old 
minister.  "We  mustn't  look  at  it  in  that  way 
quite.  Wrongs  are  of  the  will."  He  seemed  to 


182  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

lapse  into  a  greater  intimacy  of  feeling  with  C'olville. 
"  Have  you  seen  Mrs.  Bowen  to-day  ?  Or — ah  ! 
true  !  I  think  you  told  me." 

"  No,"  said  Colville.  "  Have  we  spoken  of  her  1 
But  I  have  seen  her." 

"  And  was  the  little  one  well  ?" 

"  Very  much  better." 

"  Pretty  creatures,  both  of  them,"  said  the  minis- 
ter, with  as  fresh  a  pleasure  in  his  recognition  of 
the  fact  as  if  he  had  not  said  nearly  the  same  thing 
once  before.  "You've  noticed  the  very  remark- 
able resemblance  between  mother  and  daughter?" 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  There  is  a  gentleness  in  Mrs.  Bowen  which 
seems  to  me  the  last  refinement  of  a  gracious  spirit," 
suggested  Mr.  Waters.  "  I  have  never  met  any  lady 
who  reconciled  more  exquisitely  what  is  charming  in 
society  with  what  is  lovely  in  nature." 

"  Yes,"  said  Colville.  "  Mrs.  Bowen  always  had 
that  gentle  manner.  I  used  to  know  her  here  as  a 
girl  a  great  while  ago." 

"  Did  you  ?  I  wonder  you  allowed  her  to  become 
Mrs.  Bowen." 

This  sprightliness  of  Mr.  Waters  amused  Colville 
greatly.  "  At  that  time  I  was  preoccupied  with  my 
great  mistake,  and  I  had  no  eyes  for  Mrs.  Bowen." 

"It  isn't  too  late  yet,"  said  Mr.  Waters,  with  open 
insinuation. 

A  bachelor  of  forty  is  always  flattered  by  any  sug- 
gestion of  marriage  ;  the  suggestion  that  a  beautiful 
and  charming  woman  would  marry  him  is  too  much 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  183 

for  whatever  reserves  of  modesty  and  wisdom  he 
may  have  stored  up,  Colville  took  leave  of  the  old 
minister  in  better  humour  with  himself  than  he  had 
been  for  forty-eight  hours,  or  than  he  had  any  very 
good  reason  for  being  now. 

Mr.  Waters  came  with  him  to  the  head  of  the 
stairs  and  held  up  the  lamp  for  him  to  see.  The 
light  fell  upon  the  white  locks  thinly  straggling 
from  beneath  his  velvet  skull-cap,  and  he  looked 
like  some  mediaeval  scholar 'of  those  who  lived  and 
died  for  learning  in  Florence  when  letters  were  a 
passion  there  almost  as  strong  as  love.  - 

The  next  day  Colville  would  have  liked  to  go  at 
once  and  ask  about  Effie,  but  upon  the  whole  he 
thought  he  would  not  go  till  after  he  had  been  at 
the  reception  where  he  was  going  in  the  afternoon. 
It  was  an  artist  who  was  giving  the  reception  ;  he 
had  a  number  of  pictures  to  show,  and  there  was  to 
be  tea.  There  are  artists  and  artists.  This  painter 
was  one  who  had  a  distinct  social  importance.  It 
was  felt  to  be  rather  a  nice  thing  to  be  asked  to  his 
reception  ;  one  was  sure  at  least  to  meet  the  nicest 
people. 

This  reason  prevailed  with  Colville  so  far  as  it 
related  to  Mrs.  Bowen,  whom  he  felt  that  he  would 
like  to  tell  he  had  been  there.  He  would  speak 
to  her  of  this  person  and  that — very  respected  and 
recognised  social  figures, — so  that  she  might  see  he 
was  not  the  outlaw,  the  Bohemian,  he  must  some- 
times have  appeared  to  her.  It  would  not  be  going 
too  far  to  say  that  something  like  an  obscure  inten- 


184  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

tion  to  show  himself  the  next  Sunday  at  the  English 
chapel,  where  Mrs.  Bo  wen  went,  was  not  forming 
itself  in  his  mind.  As  he  went  along  it  began  to 
seem  not  impossible  that  she  would  be  at  the  recep- 
tion. If  Effie's  indisposition  was  no  more  serious 
than  it  appeared  yesterday,  very  probably  Mrs. 
Bowen  would  be  there.  He  even  believed  that  he 
recognised  her  carriage  among  those  which  were 
drawn  up  in  front  of  the  old  palace,  under  the 
painter's  studio  windows. 

There  were  a  great  number  of  people  of  the  four 
nationalities  that  mostly  consort  in  Italy.  There 
were  English  and  Americans  and  Russians  and  the 
sort  of  Italians  resulting  from  the  native  inter- 
marriages with  them ;  here  and  there  were  Italians 
of  pure  blood,  borderers  upon  the  foreign  life  through 
a  literary  interest,  or  an  artistic  relation,  or  a  matri- 
monial intention ;  here  and  there,  also,  the  large 
stomach  of  a  German  advanced  the  bounds  of  the 
new  empire  and  the  new  ideal  of  duty.  There  were 
no  Frenchmen ;  one  may  meet  them  in  more  strictly 
Italian  assemblages,  but  it  is  as  if  the  sorrows  and 
uncertainties  of  France  in  these  times  discouraged 
them  from  the  international  society  in  which  they 
were  always  an  infrequent  element.  It  is  not,  of 
course,  imaginable  that  as  Frenchmen  they  have 
doubts  of  their  merits,  but  that  they  have  their 
misgivings  as  to  the  intelligence  of  others.  The 
language  that  prevailed  was  English — in  fact,  one 
heard  no  other, — and  the  tea  which  our  civilisation 
carries  everywhere  with  it  steamed  from  the  cups 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  185 

in  all  Lands.  This  beverage,  in  fact,  becomes  a  for- 
midable factor  in  the  life  of  a  Florentine  winter. 
One  finds  it  at  all  houses,  and  more  or  less  mechani- 
cally drinks  it. 

"  I  am  turning  out  a  terrible  tea  toper,"  said  Col- 
ville,  stirring  his  cup  in  front  of  the  old  lady  whom 
his  relations  to  the  ladies  at  Palazzo  Pinti  had 
interested  so  much.  "  I  don't  think  I  drink  less 
than  ten  cups  a  day  ;  seventy  cups  a  week  is  a  low 
average  for  me.  I  'm  really  beginning  to  look  down 
at  my  boots  a  little  anxiously." 

Mrs.  Amsden  laughed.  She  had  not  been  in 
America  for  forty  years,  but  she  liked  the  American 
way  of  talking  better  than  any  other.  "  Oh,  didn't 
you  hear  about  Inglehart  when  he  was  here  1  He 
was  so  good-natured  that  he  used  to  drink  all  the 
tea  people  offered  him,  and  then  the  young  ladies 
made  tea  for  him  in  his  studio  when  they  went  to 
look  at  his  pictures.  It  almost  killed  him.  By  the 
time  spring  came  he  trembled  so  that  the  brush  flew 
out  of  his  hands  when  he  took  it  up.  He  had  to 
hurry  off  to  Venice  to  save  his  life.  It 's  just  as 
bad  at  the  Italian  houses ;  they  've  learned  to  like 
tea," 

"  When  I  was  here  before,  they  never  offered 
you  anything  but  coffee,"  said  Colville.  "They 
took  tea  for  medicine,  and  there  was  an  old  joke 
that  I  thought  I  should  die  of,  I  heard  it  so  often 
about  the  Italian  that  said  to  the  English  \voman 
when  she  offered  him  tea,  c  Grazie ;  sto  bene.'" 

"  Oh,  that 's  all  changed  now." 


186  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

'  "  Yes ;  I  Ve  seen  the  tea,  and  I  haven't  heard  the 
joke." 

The  flavour  of  Colville's  talk  apparently  encouraged 
his  companion  to  believe  that  he  would  like  to  make 
fun  of  their  host's  paintings  with  her ;  but  whether 
he  liked  them,  or  whether  he  was  principled  against 
that  sort  of  return  for  hospitality,  he  chose  to  reply 
seriously  to  some  ironical  lures  she  threw  out. 

"  Oh,  if  you  're  going  to  be  good,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  I  shall  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  you.  Here 
comes  Mr.  Thurston ;  I  can  make  him  abuse  the 
pictures.  There  !  You  had  better  go  away  to  a 
young  lady  I  see  alone  over  yonder,  though  I  don't 
know  what  you  will  do  with  one  alone."  She 
laughed  and  shook  her  head  in  a  way  that  had  once 
been  arch  and  lively,  but  that  was  now  puckery  and 
infirm — it  is  affecting  to  see  these  things  in  women — 
and  welcomed  the  old  gentleman  who  came  up  and 
superseded  Colville. 

The  latter  turned,  with  his  cup  still  in  his  hand, 
and  wandered  about  through  the  company,  hoping 
he  might  see  Mrs.  Bo  wen  among  the  groups  peering 
at  the  pictures  or  solidly  blocking  the  view  in  front 
of  them.  He  did  not  find  her,  but  he  found 
Imogene  Graham  standing  somewhat  apart  near  a 
window.  He  saw  her  face  light  up  at  sight  of  him, 
and  then  darken  again  as  he  approached. 

"  Isn't  this  rather  an  unnatural  state  of  things  1 " 
he  asked  when  he  had  come  up.  "I  ought  to  be 
obliged  to  fight  my  way  to  you  through  successive 
phalanxes  of  young  men  crowding  round  with  cups  of 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  187 

tea  outstretched  in  their  imploring  hands.  Have 
you  had  some  tea  1 " 

"Thank  you,  no;  I  don't  wish  any,"  said  the 
young  girl,  so  coldly  that  he  could  not  help  noticing, 
though  commonly  he  was  man  enough  to  notice 
very  few  things. 

"  How  is  Effie  to-day  1 "  he  asked  quickly. 

"  Oh,  quite  well,"  said  Imogene. 

"  I  don't  see  Mrs.  Bowen,"  he  ventured  further. 

"  No,"  answered  the  girl,  still  very  lifelessly ;  "  I 
came  with  Mrs.  Fleming."  She  looked  about  the 
room  as  if  not  to  look  at  him. 

He  now  perceived  a  distinct  intention  to  snub  him. 
He  smiled.  "  Have  you  seen  the  pictures  ?  There 
are  two  or  three  really  lovely  ones." 

"  Mrs.  Fleming  will  be  here  in  a  moment,  I  sup- 
pose," said  Imogene  evasively,  but  not  with  all  her 
first  coldness. 

"Let  us  steal  a  march  on  her,"  said  Colville 
briskly.  "  When  she  conies  you  can  tell  her  that  I 
showed  you  the  pictures." 

"I  don't  know,"  faltered  the  girl. 

"  Perhaps  it  isn't  necessary  you  should,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

She  glanced  at  him  with  questioning  trepidation. 

"  The  respective  duties  of  chaperone  and  proiigie 
are  rather  undefined.  Where  the  chaperone  isn't 
there  to  command,  the  protegee  isn't  there  to  obey. 
I  suppose  you  'd  know  if  you  were  at  home  ?"" 

"Oh  yes!" 

"  Let  rne  imagine  myself  at  a  loan  exhibition  in 


188  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Buffalo.  All !  that  appeal  is  irresistible.  You  '11 
come,  I  see." 

She  hesitated ;  she  looked  at  the  nearest  picture, 
then  followed  him  to  another.  He  now  did  what 
he  had  refused  to  do  for  the  old  lady  who  tempted 
him  to  it ;  he  made  fun  of  the  pictures  a  little,  but 
so  amiably  and  with  so  much  justice  to  their  good 
points  that  the  painter  himself  would  not  have 
minded  his  jesting.  From  time  to  time  he  made 
Imogene  smile,  but  in  her  eyes  lurked  a  look  of 
uneasiness,  and  her  manner  expressed  a  struggle 
against  his  will  which  might  have  had  its  pathos  for 
him  in  different  circumstances,  but  now  it  only  in- 
cited him  to  make  her  forget  herself  more  and  more  ; 
he  treated  her  as  one  does  a  child  that  is  out  of  sorts 
— coaxingly,  ironically. 

When  they  had  made  the  round  of  the  rooms  Mrs. 
Fleming  was  not  at  the  window  where  she  had  left 
Imogene  ;  the  girl  detected  the  top  of  her  bonnet 
still  in  the  next  room. 

"  The  chaperone  is  never  there  when  you  come 
back  with  the  prottgfo"  said  Colville.  "  It  seems 
to  be  the  nature  of  the  chaperone." 

Imogene  turned  very  grave.  "  I  think  I  ought  to 
go  to  her,"  she  murmured. 

"  Oh  no  ;  she  ought  to  come  to  you  ;  I  stand  out 
for  prottgde's  rights." 

"  I  suppose  she  will  come  directly." 

"  She  sees  me  with  you  ;  she  knows  you  are  safe." 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  the  girl.  After  a  constraint 
which  she  marked  by  rather  a  long  silence,  she 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  189 

added,  "  How  strange  a  roomful  of  talking  sounds, 
doesn't  it  ?  Just  like  a  great  caldron  boiling  up 
and  bubbling  over.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  know 
what  they're  all  saying  ?" 

"Oh,  it's  quite  bad  enough  to  see  them,"  replied 
Colville  frivolously. 

"  I  think  a  company  of  gentlemen  with  their  hats 
off  look  very  queer,  don't  you1?"  she  asked,  after 
another  interval. 

"Well,  really,"  said  Colville,  laughing,  "I  don't 
know  that  the  spectacle  ever  suggested  any  meta- 
physical speculations  to  me.  I  rather  think  they 
look  queerer  with  their  hats  on." 

"Oh  yes." 

"Though  there  is  not  very  much  to  choose. 
We  're  a  queer-looking  set,  anyway." 

He  got  himself  another  cup  of  tea,  and  coming 
back  to  her,  allowed  hex*  to  make  the  efforts  to  keep 
up  the  conversation,  and  was  not  without  a  malicious 
pleasure  in  her  struggles.  They  interested  him  as 
social  exercises  which,  however  abrupt  and  undex- 
terous  now,  were  destined,  with  time  and  practice, 
to  become  the  finesse  of  a  woman  of  society,  and  to 
be  accepted,  even  while  they  were  still  abrupt  and 
undexterous,  as  touches  of  character.  He  had 
broken  up  that  coldness  with  which  she  had  met  him 
at  first,  and  now  he  let  her  adjust  the  fragments 
as  she  could  to  the  new  situation.  He  wore  that  air 
of  a  gentleman  who  has  been  talking  a  long  time  to 
a  lady,  and  who  will  not  dispute  her  possession  with 
a  new-comer. 


190  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

But  no  one  came,  though,  as  he  cast  his  eyes  care- 
lessly over  the  company,  he  found  that  it  had  been 
increased  by  the  accession  of  eight  or  ten  young 
fellows,  with  a  refreshing  light  of  originality  in  their 
faces,  and  little  touches  of  difference  from  the  other 
men  in  their  dress. 

"Oh,  there  are  the  Inglehart  boys!"  cried  the 
girl,  with  a  flash  of  excitement. 

There  was  a  sensation  of  interest  and  friendliness 
in  the  company  as  these  young  fellows,  after  their 
moment  of  social  intimidation,  began  to  gather 
round  the  pictures,  and  to  fling  their  praise  and 
blame  about,  and  talk  the  delightful  shop  of  the 
studio.  % 

The  sight  of  their  fresh  young  faces,  the  sound  of 
their  voices,  struck  a  pang  of  regret  that  was  almost 
envy  to  Colville's  heart. 

Imogene  followed  them  with  eager  eyes.  "  Oh," 
she  sighed,  "shouldn't  you  like  to  be  an  artist  ?" 

"  I  should,  very  much." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  forgot.  I  knew  you 
were  an  architect." 

"I  should  say  I  used  to  be,  if  you  hadn't  objected 
to  my  perfects  and  preterits." 

What  came  next  seemed  almost  an  accident. 

"  I  didn't  suppose  you  cared  for  my  objections,  so 
long  as  I  amused  you."  She  suddenly  glanced  at 
him,  as  if  terrified  at  her  own  words. 

"Have  you  been  trying  to  amuse  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh  no.     I  thought— 

"  Oh,   then,"  said  Colville  sharply,  "  you  meant 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  191 

that  I  was  amusing  myself  with  you  1 "  She  glanced 
at  him  in  terror  of  his  divination,  but  could  not  pro- 
test. "  Has  any  one  told  you  that  ? "  he  pursued, 
with  sudden  angry  suspicion. 

"  No,  no  one,"  began  Imogene.  She  glanced  about 
her,  frightened.  They  stood  quite  alone  where  they 
were ;  the  people  had  mostly  wandered  off  into  the 
other  rooms.  "  Oh,  don't — I  didn't  mean — I  didn't 
intend  to  say  anything " 

"But  you  have  said  something— something  that 
surprises  me  from  you,  and  hurts  me.  I  wish  to 
know  whether  you  say  it  from  yourself." 

"I  don't  know— yes.  That  is,  not Oh,  I 

wish  Mrs.  Fleming " 

She  looked  as  if  another  word  of  pursuit  would 
put  it  beyond  her  power  to  control  herself. 

"  Let  me  take  you  to  Mrs.  Fleming,"  said  Colville, 
with  freezing  hauteur ;  and  led  the  way  where  the 
top  of  Mrs.  Fleming's  bonnet  still  showed  itself. 
He  took  leave  at  once,  and  hastily  parting  with  his 
host,  found  himself  in  the  street,  whirled  in  many 
emotions.  The  girl  had  not  said  that  from  herself, 
but  it  was  from  some  woman  ;  he  knew  that  by  the 
directness  of  the  phrase  and  its  excess,  for  he  had 
noticed  that  women  who  liked  to  beat  about  the 
bush  in  small  matters  have  a  prodigious  straightfor- 
wardness in  more  vital  affairs,  and  will  even  call 
grey  black  in  order  clearly  to  establish  the  presence 
of  the  black  in  that  colour.  He  could  hardly  keep 
himself  from  going  to  Palazzo  Pinti. 

But  he  contrived  to  go  to  his  hotel  instead,  where 


192  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

he  ate  a  moody  dinner,  and  then,  after  an  hour's 
solitary  bitterness  in  his  room,  went  out  and  passed 
the  evening  at  the  theatre.  The  play  was  one  of 
those  fleering  comedies  which  render  contemptible 
for  the  time  all  honest  and  earnest  intention,  and 
which  surely  are  a  whiff  from  the  bottomless  pit 
itself.  It  made  him  laugh  at  the  serious  strain  of 
self-question  that  had  mingled  with  his  resentment ; 
it  made  him  laugh  even  at  his  resentment,  and  with 
its  humour  in  his  thoughts,  sent  him  off  to  sleep  in 
a  sottish  acceptance  of  whatever  was  trivial  in  him- 
self as  the  only  thing  that  was  real  and  lasting. 

He  slept  late,  and  when  Paolo  brought  up  his 
breakfast,  he  brought  with  it  a  letter  which  he  said 
had  been  left  with  the  porter  an  hour  before.  A 
faint  appealing  perfume  of  violet  exhaled  from  the 
note,  and  mingled  with  the  steaming  odours  of  the 
coffee  and  boiled  milk,  when  Colville,  after  a  glance 
at  the  unfamiliar  handwriting  of  the  superscription, 
broke  the  seal. 

"  DEAR  MR.  COLVILLE, — I  don't  know  what  you  will 
think  of  my  writing  to  you,  but  perhaps  you  can't  think 
worse  of  me  than  you  do  already,  and  anything  will  be 
better  than  the  misery  that  I  am  in.  I  have  not  been 
asleep  all  night.  I  hate  myself  for  telling  you,  but  I  do 
want  you  to  understand  how  I  have  felt.  I  would  give 
worlds  if  I  could  take  back  the  words  that  you  say  wounded 
you.  I  didn't  mean  to  wound  you.  Nobody  is  to  blame 
for  them  but  me  ;  nobody  ever  breathed  a  word  about  you 
that  was  meant  in  unkindness. 

"  I  am  not  ashamed  of  writing  this,  whatever  you  think, 
and  I  will  sign  my  name  in  full.  IMOGENE  GRAHAM." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  193 

Colville  had  commonly  a  good  appetite  for  his 
breakfast,  but  now  he  let  his  coffee  stand  long  un- 
tasted.  There  were  several  things  about  this  note 
that  touched  him — the  childlike  simplicity  and 
directness,  the  generous  courage,  even  the  imperfec- 
tion and  crudity  of  the  literature.  However  he  saw 
it  afterward,  he  saw  it  then  in  its  true  intention. 
He  respected  that  intention ;  through  all  the  sophis- 
tications in  which  life  had  wrapped  him,  it  awed 
him  a  little.  He  realised  that  if  he  had  been 
younger  he  would  have  gone  to  Imogene  herself 
with  her  letter.  He  felt  for  the  moment  a  rush  of 
the  emotion  which  he  would  once  not  have  stopped 
to  examine,  which  he  would  not  have  been  capable 
of  examining.  But  now  his  duty  was  clear;  he 
must  go  to  Mrs.  Bowen.  In  the  noblest  human 
purpose  there  is  always  some  admixture,  however 
slight,  of  less  noble  motive,  arid  Colville  was  not 
without  the  willingness  to  see  whatever  embarrass- 
ment she  might  feel  when  he  showed  her  the  letter, 
and  to  invoke  her  finest  tact  to  aid  him  in  re-assur- 
ing the  child. 

She  was  alone  in  her  drawing-room,  and  she  told 
him  in  response  to  his  inquiry  for  their  health  that 
Imogene  and  Effie  had  gone  out  to  drive.  She 
looked  so  pretty  in  the  quiet  house  dress  in  which 
she  rose  from  the  sofa  and  stood,  letting  him  come 
the  whole  way  to  greet  her,  that  he  did  not  think  of 
any  other  look  in  her,  but  afterward  he  remembered 
an  evidence  of  inner  tumult  in  her  brightened  eyes. 

He  said,  smiling,  "  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you  alone, ' 

N 


194  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

and  this  brought  still  another  look  into  her  face, 
which  also  he  afterward  remembered.  She  did  not 
reply,  but  made  a  sound  in  her  throat  like  a  bird 
when  it  stirs  itself  for  flight  or  song.  It  was  a 
strange,  indefinite  little  note,  in  which  Colville 
thought  he  detected  trepidation  at  the  time,  and 
recalled  for  the  sort  of  expectation  suggested  in  it. 
She  stood  waiting  for  him  to  go  on. 

"  I  have  come  to  get  you  to  help  me  out  of  trouble." 

"  Yes  1 "  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  with  a  vague  smile. 
"  I  always  supposed  you  would  be  able  to  help  your- 
self out  of  trouble.  Or  perhaps  wouldn't  mind  it  if 
you  were  in  it." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  mind  it  very  much,"  returned  Colville, 
refusing  her  banter,  if  it  were  banter.  "  Especially 
this  sort  of  trouble,  which  involves  some  one  else  in 
the  discomfort."  He  went  on  abruptly  :  "I  have 
been  held  up  to  a  young-  lady  as  a  person  who  was 
amusing  himself  with  her,  and  I  was  so  absurd  as  to 
be  angry  when  she  told  me,  and  demanded  the  name 
of  my  friend,  whoever  it  was.  My  behaviour  seems 
to  have  given  the  young  lady  a  bad  night,  and  this 
morning  she  writes  to  tell  me  so,  and  to  take  all  the 
blame  on  herself,  and  to  assure  me  that  no  harm  was 
meant  me  by  any  one.  Of  course  I  don't  want  her 
to  be  distressed  about  it.  Perhaps  you  can  guess 
who  has  been  writing  to  me." 

Colville  said  all  this  looking  down,  in  a  fashion 
he  had.  When  he  looked  up  he  saw  a  severity  in 
Mrs.  Bowen's  pretty  face,  such  as  he  had  not  seen 
there  before. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  195 

"  I  didn't  know  she  had  been  writing  to  you,  but 
I  know  that  you  are  talking  of  Imogene.  She  told 
me  what  she  had  said  to  you  yesterday,  and  I  blamed 
her  for  it,  but  I  'm  not  sure  that  it  wasn't  best." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  "  said  Colville.  "  Perhaps  you  can 
tell  me  who  put  the  idea  into  her  head  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  I  did." 

A  dead  silence  ensued,  in  which  the  fragments  of 
the  situation  broken  by  these  words  revolved  before 
Colville's  thought  with  kaleidoscopic  variety,  and  he 
passed  through  all  the  phases  of  anger,  resentment, 
wounded  self-love,  and  accusing  shame. 

At  last,  "  I  suppose  you  had  your  reasons,"  he 
said  simply. 

"  I  am  in  her  mother's  place  here,"  she  replied, 
tightening  the  grip  of  one  little  hand  upon  another, 
where  she  held  them  laid  against  the  side  of  her 
waist. 

"  Yes,  I  know  that,"  said  Colville ;  "  but  what 
reason  had  you  to  warn  her  against  me  as  a  person 
who  was  amusing  himself  with  her  1  I  don't  like 
the  phrase  ;  but  she  seems  to  have  got  it  from  you ; 
I  use  it  at  third  hand." 

"  I  don't  like  the  phrase  either ;  I  didn't  invent 
it." 

"You  used  it." 

"  No ;  it  wasn't  I  who  used  it.  I  should  have 
been  glad  to  use  another,  if  I  could,"  said  Mrs. 
Bowen,  with  perfect  steadiness. 

"  Then  you  mean  to  say  that  you  believe  I  Ve  been 
trifling  with  the  feelings  of  this  child  ?  " 


196  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  I  mean  to  say  nothing.  You  are  very  much 
older ;  and  she  is  a  romantic  girl,  very  extravagant. 
You  have  tried  to  make  her  like  you." 

"I  certainly  have.  I  have  tried  to  make  Effie 
Bo  wen  like  me  too. " 

Mrs.  Bowen  passed  this  over  in  serenity  that  he 
felt  was  not  far  from  contempt. 

He  gave  a  laugh  that  did  not  express  enjoyment. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  laugh  ! "  she  cried,  losing 
herself  a  little,  and  so  making  her  first  gain  upon 
him. 

"  It  appears  not.  Perhaps  you  will  tell  me  what 
I  am  to  do  about  this  letter  1 " 

"  That  is  for  you  to  decide."  She  recovered  her- 
self, and  lost  ground  with  him  in  proportion. 

"  I  thought  perhaps  that  since  you  were  able  to 
judge  my  motives  so  clearly,  you  might  be  able  to 
advise  me." 

"  I  don't  judge  your  motives,"  Mrs.  Bowen  began. 
She  added  suddenly,  as  if  by  an  after-thought,  "  I 
don't  think  you  had  any." 

"  I'm  obliged  to  you." 

"  But  you  are  as  much  to  blame  as  if  you  had." 

"  And  perhaps  I  'm  as  much  to  blame  as  if  I  had 
really  wronged  somebody  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  It 's  rather  paradoxical.  You  don't  wish  me  to 
see  her  any  more  ? " 

"  I  haven't  any  wish  about  it ;  you  must  not  say 
that  I  have,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  with  dignity. 

Colville  smiled.     "  May  I  ask  if  you  have  ? " 


INDIAN  SUMMKR.  197 

"Not  for  myself." 

"  You  put  me  on  very  short  allowance  of  con- 
jecture." 

"I  will  not  let  you  trifle  with  the  matter!"  she 
cried.  "You  have  made  me  speak,  when  a  word,  a 
look,  ought  to  have  been  enough.  Oh,  I  didn't 
think  you  had  the  miserable  vanity  to  wish  it !  " 

Colville  stood  thinking  a  long  time  and  she  wait- 
ing. "I  see  that  everything  is  at  an  end.  I  am 
going  away  from  Florence.  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Bowen." 
He  approached  her,  holding  out  his  hand.  But  if 
he  expected  to  be  rewarded  for  this,  nothing  of  the 
kind  happened.  She  shrank  swiftly  back. 

"  No,  no.     You  shall  not  touch  me." 

He  paused  a  moment,  gazing  keenly  at  her  face, 
in  which,  whatever  other  feeling  showed,  there  was 
certainly  no  fear  of  him.  Then  with  a  slight  bow 
he  left  the  room. 

Mrs.  Bowen  ran  from  it  by  another  door,  and 
shut  herself  into  her  own  room.  When  she  re- 
turned to  the  salotto,  Imogene  and  Effie  were  just 
coming  in.  The  child  went  to  lay  aside  her  hat 
and  sacque ;  the  girl,  after  a  glance  at  Mrs.  Bowen's 
face,  lingered  inquiringly. 

"  Mr.  Colville  came  here  with  your  letter,  Imo- 
gene." 

"  Yes,"  said  Imogene  faintly.  "  Do  you  think  I 
oughtn't  to  have  written  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  makes  no  difference  now.  He  is  going 
away  from  Florence." 

"  Yes  ? "  breathed  the  girl 


198  INBIAN  SUMMER. 

"  I  spoke  openly  with  him." 

"  Yes  1 " 

"  I  didn't  spare  him.  I  made  him  think  I  hated 
and  despised  him." 

Imogene  was  silent.  Then  she  said,  "I  know 
that  whatever  you  have  done,  you  have  acted  for 
the  best." 

"  Yes,  I  have  a  right  that  you  should  say  that — I 
have  a  right  that  you  should  always  say  it.  I  think 
he  has  behaved  very  foolishly,  but  I  don't  blame 
him " 

"  No  !  I  was  to  blame." 

"  I  don't  know  that  he  was  to  blame,  and  I  won't 
let  you  think  he  was." 

"  Oh,  he  is  the  best  man  in  the  world  !  " 

"  He  gave  up  at  once ;  he  didn't  try  to  defend 
himself.  It's  nothing  for  you  to  lose  a  friend  at 
your  age ;  but  at  mine " 

"I  know  it,  Mrs.  Bowen." 

"And  I  wouldn't  even  shake  hands  with  him 
when  he  was  going ;  I " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  see  how  you  could  be  so  hard ! " 
cried  Imogene.  She  put  up  her  hands  to  her  face, 
and  broke  into  tears.  Mrs.  Bowen  watched  her, 
dry  eyed,  with  her  lips  parted,  and  an  intensity 
of  question  in  her  face. 

"  Imogene,"  she  said  at  last,  "  I  wish  you  to 
promise  me  one  thing." 

"  Yes." 

"Not  to  write  to  Mr.  Colville  again." 

"  No,  no ;    indeed  I  won't,  Mrs.  Bowen  !  "     The 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  199 

girl  came  up  to  kiss  her;  Mrs.  Bowen  turned  her 
cheek. 

Imogene  was  going  from  the  room,  when  Mrs. 
Bowen  spoke  again.  "But  I  wish  you  to  promise 
me  this  only  because  you  don't  feel  sure  of  yourself 
about  him.  If  you  care  for  him — if  you  think  you 
care  for  him — then  I  leave  you  perfectly  free." 

The  girl  looked  up,  scared.  "  No,  no ;  I  'd  rather 
you  wouldn't  leave  me  free — you  mustn't;  I  shouldn't 
know  what  to  do." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen. 

They  both  waited  a  moment,  as  if  each  were  stay- 
ing for  the  other  to  speak.  Then  Imogene  asked, 
"  Is  he — going  soon  ? " 

" I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen.  "Why  should 
he  want  to  delay  *?  He  had  better  go  at'once.  And 
I  hope  he  will  go  home — as  far  from  Florence  as  he 
can.  I  should  think  he  would  hate  the  place." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  quivering  sigh ;  "  it 
must  be  hateful  to  him."  She  paused,  and  then 
she  rushed  on  with  bitter  self-reproach.  "And  I 
— I  have  helped  to  make  it  so !  0  Mrs.  Bowen, 
perhaps  it 's  /  who  have  been  trifling  with  him ! 
Trying  to  make  him  believe — no,  not  trying  to 

do  that,  but  letting  him  see  that  I  sympathised 

OH,  do  you  think  I  have  1  " 

"  You  know  what  you  have  been  doing,  Imogene," 
said  Mrs.-  Bowen,  with  the  hardness  it  surprises  men 
to  know  women  use  with  each  other,  they  seem  such 
tender  creatures  in  the  abstract.  "You  have  no 
need  to  ask  me." 


200  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"No,  no." 

"  As  you  say,  I  warned  you  from  the  first/' 

"  Oh  yes  ;  you  did." 

"I  couldn't  do  more  than  hint ;  it  was  too  much 
to  expect " 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes." 

"  And  if  you  couldn't  take  my  hints,  I  was  help- 
less." 

"Yes;  I  see  it." 

"  I  was  only  afraid  of  saying  too  much,  and  all 
through  that  miserable  veglione  business  I  was  trying 
to  please  you  and  him,  because  I  was  afraid  I  had 
said  too  much — gone  too  far.  I  wanted  to  show  you 
that  I  disdained  to  be  suspicious,  that  I  was  ashamed 
to  suppose  that  a  girl  of  your  age  could  care  for  the 
admiration  of  a  man  of  his." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  care  for  his  admiration.  I  admired 
him — and  pitied  him." 

Mrs.  Bo  wen  apparently  would  not  be  kept  now 
from  saying  all  that  had  been  rankling  in  her  breast. 
"I  didn't  approve  of  going  to  the  veglione.  A 
great  many  people  would  be  shocked  if  they  knew  I 
went ;  I  wouldn't  at  all  like  to  have  it  known.  But 
I  was  not  going  to  have  him  thinking  that  I  was 
severe  with  you,  and  wanted  to  deny  you  any  really 
harmless  pleasure." 

"  Oh,  who  could  think  that  1  You  're  only  too 
good  to  me.  You  see,"  said  the  girl,  "what  a  re- 
turn I  have  made  for  your  trust.  I  knew  you  didn't 
want  to  go  to  the  veglione.  If  I  hadn't  been  the 
most  selfish  girl  in  the  world  I  wouldn't  have  let 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  201 

you.  But  I  did.  I  forced  you  to  go,  and  then,  after 
we  got  there,  I  seized  every  advantage,  and  abused 
your  kindness  till  I  wonder  I  didn't  sink  through  the 
floor.  Yes ;  I  ought  to  have  refused  to  dance — if 
I  'd  had  a  spark  of  generosity  or  gratitude  I  would 
have  done  it ;  and  I  ought  to  have  come  straight 
back  to  you  the  instant  the  waltz  was  done.  And 
now  see  what  has  come  of  it !  I  Ve  made  you  think 
he  was  trifling  with  me,  and  I  Ve  made  him  think 
that  I  'm  a  false  and  hollow-hearted  thing." 

"  You  know  best  what  you  have  done,  Imogene, " 
said  Mrs.  Bowen,  with  a  smiling  tearfulness  that  was 
somehow  very  bitter.  She  rose  from  the  sofa,  as  if 
to  indicate  that  there  was  no  more  to  be  said,  and 
Imogene,  with  a  fresh  burst  of  grief,  rushed  away  to 
her  own  room. 

She  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  her  bed,  and 
stretched  out  her  arms  upon  it,  an  image  of  that 
desolation  of  soul  which,  when  we  are  young,  seems 
limitless,  but  which  in  later  life  we  know  has  com- 
paratively narrow  bounds  beyond  the  clouds  that 
rest  so  blackly  around  us. 


XII. 


IN  his  room  Colville  was  devouring  as  best  he 
might  the  chagrin  with  which  he  had  come  away 
from  Palazzo  Pinti,  while  he  packed  his  trunk  for 
departure.  Now  that  the  thing  was  over,  the  worst 
was  past.  Again  he  observed  that  his  emotions 
had  no  longer  the  continuity  that  the  emotions  of  his 
youth  possessed.  As  he'  remembered,  a  painful  or 
pleasant  impression  used  to  last  indefinitely;  but 
here  he  was  with  this  humiliating  affair  hot  in  his 
mind,  shrugging  his  shoulders  with  a  sense  of  relief, 
almost  a  sense  of  escape.  Does  the  soul  really  wear 
out  with  the  body  1  The  question  flitted  across  his 
mind  as  he  took  down  a  pair  of  trousers,  and  noticed 
that  they  were  considerably  frayed  about  the  feet ; 
he  determined  to  give  them  to  Paolo,  and  this  re- 
minded him  to  ring  for  Paolo,  and  send  word  to  the 
office  that  he  was  going  to  take  the  evening  train  for 
Rome. 

He  went  on  packing,  and  putting  away  with  the 
different  garments  the  unpleasant  thoughts  that  he 
knew  he  should  be  sure  to  unpack  with  them  in 
Rome ;  but  they  would  then  have  less  poignancy. 


202 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  203 

For  the  present  he  was  doing  the  best  he  could,  and 
he  was  not  making  any  sort  of  pretences.  When  his 
trunk  was  locked  he  kindled  himself  a  fire,  and  sat 
down  before  it  to  think  of  Imogene.  He  began  with 
her,  but  presently  it  seemed  to  be  Mrs.  Bowen  that 
he  was  thinking  of ;  then  he  knew  he  was  drop- 
ping off  to  sleep  by  the  manner  in  which  their  two 
ideas  mixed.  The  fatigues  and  excitements  of  the 
week  had  been  great,  but  he  would  not  give  way ; 
it  was  too  disgraceful. 

Some  one  rapped  at  his  door.  He  called  out 
"Avanti!"  and  he  would  have  been  less  surprised 
to  see  either  of  those  ladies  than  Paolo  with  the 
account  he  had  ordered  to  be  made  out.  It  was  a 
long,  pendulous,  minutely  itemed  affair,  such  as 
the  traveller's  recklessness  in  candles  and  firewood 
comes  to  in  the  books  of  the  Continental  landlord, 
and  it  almost  swept  the  floor  when  its  volume  was 
unrolled.  But  it  was  not  the  sum-total  that  dis- 
mayed Colville  when  he  glanced  at  the  final  figure  ; 
that,  indeed,  was  not  so  very  great,  with  all  the 
items  ;  it  was  the  conviction,  suddenly  flashing  upon 
him,  that  he  had  not  money  enough  by  him  to  pay 
it.  His  watch,  held  close  to  the  fire,  told  him  that 
it  was  five  o'clock ;  the  banks  had  been  closed  an 
hour,  and  this  was  Saturday  afternoon. 

The  squalid  accident  had  all  the  effect  of  inten- 
tion, as  he  viewed  it  from  without  himself,  and  con- 
sidered that  the  money  ought  to  have  been  the  first 
thing  in  his  thoughts  after  he  determined  to  go  away. 
He  must  get  the  money  somehow,  and  be  off  to 


204  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Rome  by  the  seven  o'clock  train.  A  whimsical 
suggestion,  which  was  so  good  a  bit  of  irony  that  it 
made  him  smile,  flashed  across  him :  he  might 
borrow  it  of  Mrs.  Bowen.  She  was,  in  fact,  the 
only  person  in  Florence  with  whom  he  was  at  all  on 
borrowing  terms,  and  a  sad  sense  of  the  sweetness 
of  her  lost  friendship  followed  upon  the  antic  notion. 
No ;  for  once  he  could  not  go  to  Mrs.  Bowen.  He 
recollected  now  the  many  pleasant  talks  they  had 
had  together,  confidential  in  virtue  of  their  old  ac- 
quaintance, and  harmlessly  intimate  in  many  things. 
He  recalled  how,  when  he  was  feeling  dull  from  the 
Florentine  air,  she  had  told  him  to  take  a  little 
quinine,  and  he  had  found  immediate  advantage  in  it. 
These  memories  did  strike  him  as  grotesque  or  ludi- 
crous ;  he  only  felt  their  pathos.  He  was  ashamed 
even  to  seem  in  anywise  recreant  further.  If  she 
should  ever  hear  that  he  had  lingered  for  thirty- 
six  hours  in  Florence  after  he  had  told  her  he  was 
going  away,  what  could  she  think  but  that  he  had 
repented  his  decision  ?  He  determined  to  go  down 
to  the  office  of  the  hotel,  and  see  if  he  could  not 
make  some  arrangement  with  the  landlord.  It 
would  be  extremely  distasteful,  but  his  ample  letter 
of  credit  would  be  at  least  a  voucher  of  his  final 
ability  to  pay.  As  a  desperate  resort  he  could  go 
and  try  to  get  the  money  of  Mr.  Waters. 

He  put  on  his  coat  and  hat,  and  opened  the  door 
to  some  one  who  was  just  in  act  to  knock  at  it,  and 
whom  he  struck  against  in  the  obscurity. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  visitor. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  205 

"  Mr.  Waters  !  Is  it  possible  1 "  cried  Colville, 
feeling  something  fateful  in  the  chance.  "  I  was 
just  going  to  see  you." 

"  I  'm  fortunate  in  meeting  you,  then.  Shall  we 
go  to  my  room  ? "  he  asked,  at  a  hesitation  in  Col- 
ville's  manner. 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  latter ;  "  come  in  here."  He 
led  the  way  back  into  his  room,  and  struck  a  match 
to  light  the  candles  on  his  chimney.  Their  dim  rays 
fell  upon  the  disorder  his  packing  had  left.  "  You 
must  excuse  the  look  of  things,"  he  said.  "The  fact 
is,  I'm  just  going  away.  I'm  going  to  Rome  at 
seven  o'clock." 

"  Isn't  this  rather  sudden  ? "  asked  the  minister, 
with  less  excitement  than  the  fact  might  perhaps  have 
been  expected  to  create  in  a  friend.  "  I  thought 
you  intended  to  pass  the  winter  in  Florence." 

"  Yes,  I  did — sit  down,  please — but  I  find  myself 
obliged  to  cut  my  stay  short.  Won't  you  take  off 
your  coat  1 "  he  asked,  taking  off  his  own. 

"  Thank  you ;  I  Ve  formed  the  habit  of  keeping  it 
on  indoors,"  said  Mr.  Waters.  "  And  I  oughtn't  to 
stay  long,  if  you  're  to  be  off  so  soon." 

Colville  gave  a  very  uncomfortable  laugh.  "  Why, 
the  fact  is,  I  'm  not  off  so  very  soon  unless  you  help 
me." 

"Ah?"  returned  the  old  gentleman,  with  polite 
interest. 

"  Yes,  I  find  myself  in  the  absurd  position  of  a 
man  who  has  reckoned  without  his  host.  I  have 
made  all  my  plans  for  going,  and  have  had  my  hotel 


206  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

bill  sent  to  me  in  pursuance  of  that  idea,  and  now  I 
discover  that  I  not  only  haven't  money  enough  to 
pay  it  and  get  to  Eome,  but  I  haven't  much  more 
than  half  enough  to  pay  it.  I  have  credit  galore," 
he  said,  trying  to  give  the  situation  a  touch  of 
liveliness,  "but  the  bank  is  shut." 

Mr.  Waters  listened  to  the  statement  with  a  silence 
concerning  which  Colville  was  obliged  to  form  his 
conjectures.  "  That  is  unfortunate,"  he  said  sympa- 
thetically, but  not  encouragingly. 

Colville  pushed  on  desperately.  "  It  is,  unless 
you  can  help  me,  Mr.  Waters.  I  want  you  to  lend 
me  fifty  dollars  for  as  many  hours." 

Mr.  Waters  shook  his  head  with  a  compassionate 
smile.  "  I  haven't  fifty  francs  in  cash.  You  are 
welcome  to  what  there  is.  I  'm  very  forgetful  about 
money  matters,  and  haven't  been  to  the  bankers." 

"  Oh,  don't  excuse  yourself  to  me,  unless  you 
wish  to  embitter  my  shame.  I  'm  obliged  to  you  for 
offering  to  share  your  destitution  with  me.  I  must 
try  to  run  my  face  with  the  landlord,"  said  Colville. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Mr.  Waters  gently.  "  Is  there 
such  haste  as  all  that  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  must  go  at  once." 

"  I  don't  like  to  have  you  apply  to  a  stranger," 
said  the  old  man,  with  fatherly  kindness.  "  Can't 
you  remain  over  till  Monday  ?  I  had  a  little  excur- 
sion to  propose." 

"  No,  I  can't  possibly  stay ;  I  must  go  to-night," 
cried  Colville. 

The  minister  rose.    "  Then  I  really  mustn't  detain 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  207 

you,  I  suppose.  Good-bye."  He  offered  his  hand. 
Colville  took  it,  but  could  not  let  it  go  at  once.  "  I 
would  like  extremely  to  tell  you  why  I'm  leav- 
ing Florence  in  such  haste.  But  I  don't  see  what 
good  it  would  do,  for  I  don't  want  you  to  persuade 
me  to  stay." 

The  old  gentleman  looked  at  him  with  friendly 
interest. 

"The  fact  is,"  Colville  proceeded,  as  if  he  had 
been  encouraged  to  do  so,  "I  have  had  the  mis- 
fortune— yes,  I'm  afraid  I've  had  the  fault — to 
make  myself  very  displeasing  to  Mrs.  Bowen,  and  in 
such  a  way  that  the  very  least  I  can  do  is  to  take 
myself  off  as  far  and  as  soon  as  I  conveniently  can." 

"  Yes  ? "  said  Mr.  Waters,  with  the  cheerful  note 
of  incredulity  in  his  voice  with  which  one  is  apt 
to  respond  to  others'  confession  of  extremity.  "  Is 
it  so  bad  as  that  ?  I  Ve  just  seen  Mrs.  Bowen,  and 
she  told  me  you  were  going." 

"Oh,"  said  Colville,  with  disagreeable  sensation, 
"perhaps  she  told  you  why  I  was  going." 

"  No,"  answered  Mr.  Waters  ;  "she  didn't  do  that." 
Colville  imagined  a  consciousness  in  him,  which  per- 
haps did  not  exist.  "  She  didn't  allude  to  the  sub- 
ject further  than  to  state  the  fact,  when  I  mentioned 
that  I  was  coming  to  see  you." 

Colville  had  dropped  his  hand.  "  She  was  very 
forbearing,"  he  said,  with  bitterness  that  might  well 
have  been  incomprehensible  to  Mr.  Waters  upon  any 
theory  but  one. 

"Perhaps,"  he  suggested,  "you  are  precipitate; 


208  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

perhaps  you  have  mistaken ;  perhaps  you  have  been 
hasty.  These  things  are  often  the  result  of  impulse 
in  women.  I  have  often  wondered  how  they  could 
make  up  their  minds ;  I  believe  they  certainly  ought 
to  be  allowed  to  change  them  at  least  once." 

Colville  turned  very  red.  "  What  in  the  world 
do  you  mean  ?  Do  you  imagine  that  I  have  been 
offering  myself  to  Mrs.  Bowen  ? " 

"  Wasn't  it  that  which  you  wished  to — which  you 
said  you  would  like  to  tell  me  1 " 

Colville  was  suddenly  silent,  on  the  verge  of  a 
self-derisive  laugh.  When  he  spoke,  he  said  gently: 
"No;  it  wasn't  that.  I  never  thought  of  offering 
myself  to  her.  We  have  always  been  very  good 
friends.  But  now  I'm  afraid  we  can't  be  friends 
any  more — at  least  we  can't  be  acquaintances." 

"  Oh  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Waters.  He  waited  a  while 
as  if  for  Colville  to  say  more,  but  the  latter  remained 
silent,  and  the  old  man  gave  his  hand  again  in  fare- 
well. "  I  must  really  be  going.  I  hope  you  won't 
think  me  intrusive  in  my  mistaken  conjecture  ? " 

"  Oh  no." 

"It  was  what  I  supposed  you  had  been  telling 
me " 

"  I  understand.  You  mustn't  be  troubled,"  said 
Colville,  though  he  had  to  own  to  himself  that  it 
seemed  superfluous  to  make  this  request  of  Mr. 
Waters,  who  was  taking  the  affair  with  all  the 
serenity  of  age  concerning  matters  of  sentiment. 
"I  wish  you  were  going  to  Rome  with  me,"  he 
added,  to  disembarrass  the  moment  of  parting. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  209 

"Thank  you.  But  I  shall  not  go  to  Eome  for 
some  years.  Shall  you  come  back  on  your  way  in 
the  spring  1 " 

"No,  I  shall  not  come  to  Florence  again,"  said 
Colville  sadly. 

"  Ah,  I  'm  sorry.  Good-bye,  my  dear  young  friend. 
It 's  been  a  great  pleasure  to  know  you."  Colville 
walked  down  to  the  door  of  the  hotel  with  his  visitor 
and  parted  with  him  there.  As  he  turned  back  he 
met  the  landlord,  who  asked  him  if  he  would  have 
the  omnibus  for  the  station.  The  landlord  bowed 
smilingly,  after  his  kind,  and  rubbed  his  hands.  He 
said  he  hoped  Colville  was  pleased  with  his  hotel, 
and  ran  to  his  desk  in  the  little  office  to  get  some 
cards  for  him,  so  that  he  might  recommend  it  accu- 
rately to  American  families. 

Colville  looked  absently  at  the  cards.  "  The  fact 
is,"  he  said,  to  the  little  bowing,  smiling  man ;  "  I 
don't  know  but  I  shall  be  obliged  to  postpone  my 
going  till  Monday."  He  smiled  too,  trying  to  give 
the  fact  a  jocose  effect,  and  added,  "I  find  myself 
out  of  money,  and  I've  no  means  of  paying  your 
bill  till  I  can  see  my  bankers." 

After  all  his  heroic  intention,  this  was  as  near  as 
he  could  come  to  asking  the  landlord  to  let  him  send 
the  money  from  Rome. 

The  little  man  set  his  head  on  one  side. 

"  Oh,  well,  occupy  the  room  until  Monday,  then," 
he  cried  hospitably.  "It  is  quite  at  your  disposi- 
tion. You  will  not  want  the  omnibus  ? " 

"  No,  I  shall  not  want  the  omnibus,"  said  Colville, 
o 


210  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

with  a  laugh,  doubtless  not  perfectly  intelligible  to 
the  landlord,  who  respectfully  joined  him  in  it. 

He  did  not  mean  to  stop  that  night  without  writ- 
ing to  Mrs.  Bowen,  and  assuring  her  that  though  an 
accident  had  kept  him  in  Florence  till  Monday,  she 
need  not  be  afraid  of  seeing  him  again.  But  he 
could  not  go  back  to  his  room  yet ;  he  wandered 
about  the  town,  trying  to  pick  himself  up  from  the 
ruin  into  which  he  had  fallen  again,  and  wondering 
with  a  sort  of  alien  compassion  what  was  to  become 
of  his  aimless,  empty  existence.  As  he  passed 
through  the  Piazza  San  Marco  he  had  half  a  mind 
to  pick  a  pebble  from  the  gardened  margin  of  the 
fountain  there  and  toss  it  against  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Waters's  window,  and  when  he  put  his  skull-cap  out, 
to  ask  that  optimistic  agnostic  what  a  man  had  best 
do  with  a  life  that  had  ceased  to  interest  him.  But, 
for  the  time  being,  he  got  rid  of  himself  as  he  best 
could  by  going  to  the  opera.  They  professed  to  give 
Rigoletto,  but  it  was  all  Mrs.  Bowen  and  Imogene 
Graham  to  Colville. 

It  was  so  late  when  he  got  back  to  his  hotel  that 
the  outer  gate  was  shut,  and  he  had  to  wake  up  the 
poor  little  porter,  as  on  that  night  when  he  returned 
from  Madame  Uccelli's.  The  porter  was  again  equal 
to  his  duty,  and  contrived  to  light  a  new  candle  to 
show  him  the  way  to  his  room.  The  repetition, 
almost  mechanical,  of  this  small  chicane  made 
Colville  smile,  and  this  apparently  encouraged  the 
porter  to  ask,  as  if  he  supposed  him  to  have  been  in 
society  somewhere — 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  211 

"  You  have  amused  yourself  this  evening  ? 
"  Oh,  very  much." 

"  I  am  glad.     There  is  a  letter  for  you.' 
"  A  letter  !     Where  ?  " 

"  I  sent  it  to  your  room.     It  came  just  before 
midnight." 


XIII. 

MRS.  Bo  WEN  sat  before  the  hearth  in  her  salon, 
with  her  hands  fallen  in  her  lap.  At  thirty-eight 
the  emotions  engrave  themselves  more  deeply  in  the 
face  tjian  they  do  in  our  first  youth,  or  than  they 
will  when  we  have  really  aged,  and  the  pretty  woman 
looked  haggard, 

Imogene  came  in,  wearing  a  long  blue  robe,  flung 
on  as  if  with  desperate  haste ;  her  thick  hair  fell 
crazily  out  of  a  careless  knot,  down  her  back.  "  I 
couldn't  sleep,"  she  said,  with  quivering  lips,  at 
the  sight  of  which  Mrs.  Bowen's  involuntary  smile 
hardened.  "  Isn't  it  eleven  yet  ? "  she  added,  with  a 
glance  at  the  clock.  "  It  seems  years  since  I  went  to 
bed." 

"It's  been  a  long  day,"  Mrs.  Bowen  admitted. 
She  did  not  ask  Imogene  why  she  could  not  sleep, 
perhaps  because  she  knew  already,  and  was  too 
honest  to  affect  ignorance.  .  %  •  . 

The  girl  dropped  into  a  chair  opposite  her,  and 
began  to  pull  her  fingers  through  the  long  tangle  of 
her  hair,  while  she  drew  her  breath  in  sighs  that 
broke  at  times  on  her  lips  ;  some  tears  fell  down  her 

212 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  213 

cheeks  unheeded.  "Mrs.  Bowen,"  she  said,  at 
length,  "  I  should  like  to  know  what  right  we  have 
to  drive  any  one  from  Florence  1  I  should  think 
people  would  call  it  rather  a  high-handed  proceeding 
if  it  were  known." 

Mrs.  Bowen  met  this  feebleness  promptly.  "  It 
isn't  likely  to  be  known.  But  we  are  not  driving 
Mr.  Colville  away." 

"  He  is  going." 

"  Yes ;  he  said  he  would  go." 

"  Don't  you  believe  he  will  go  ?  " 

"  I  believe  he  will  do  what  he  says." 

"  He  has  been  very  kind  to  us  all ;  he  has  been  as 
good!" 

"  No  one  feels  that  more  than  I,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen, 
with  a  slight  tremor  in  her  voice.  She  faltered  a 
moment.  "  I  can't  let  you  say  those  things  to  me, 
Imogene." 

"  No  ;  I  know  it 's  wrong.  I  didn't  know  what  I 
was  saying.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  tell  what  I  ought 
to  do  !  I  wish  I  could  make  up  my  mind.  Oh,  I 
can't  let  him  go — so.  I — I  don't  know  what  to  think 
any  more.  Once  it  was  clear,  but  now  I  'm  not  sure  ; 
no,  I  'm  not  sure." 

"  Not  sure  about  what  ? " 

"  I  think  I  am  the  one  to  go  away,  if  any  one." 

"  You  know  you  can't  go  away,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen, 
with  weary  patience. 

"  No,  of  course  not.  Well,  I  shall  never  see  any 
one  like  him." 

Mrs.  Bowen  made  a  start  in  her  chair,  as  if  she 


214  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

had  no  longer  the  power  to  remain  quiet,  but  only 
placed  herself  a  little  more  rigidly  in  it. 

"  No,"  the  girl  went  on,  as  if  uttering  a  hopeless 
reverie.  "  He  made  every  moment  interesting.  He 
was  always  thinking  of  us — he  never  thought  of 
himself.  He  did  as  much  for  Effie  as  for  any  one ; 
he  tried  just  as  hard  to  make  himself  interesting  to 
her.  He  was  unselfish.  I  have  seen  him  at  places 
being  kind  to  the  stupidest  people.  You  never 
caught  him  choosing  out  the  stylish  or  attractive 
ones,  or  trying  to  shine  at  anybody's  expense.  Oh, 
he 's  a  true  gentleman — I  shall  always  say  it.  How 
delicate  he  was,  never  catching  you  up,  or  if  you 
said  a  foolish  thing,  trying  to  turn  it  against  you. 
No,  never,  never,  never  !  Oh  dear  !  And  now,  what 
can  he  think  of  me  1  Oh,  how  frivolous  and  fickle 
and  selfish  he  must  think  me  ! " 

"  Imogene  !"  Mrs.  Bowen  cried  out,  but  quelled 
herself  again. 

"  Yes,"  pursued  the  girl,  in  the  same  dreary  mono- 
tone, "  he  thinks  I  couldn't  appreciate  him  because  he 
was  old.  He  thinks  that  I  cared  for  his  not  being  hand- 
some !  Perhaps — perhaps "  She  began  to  catch 

her  breath  in  the  effort  to  keep  back  the  sobs  that 
were  coming.  "  Oh,  I  can't  bear  it  !  I  would  rather 
die  than  let  him  think  it — such  a  thing  as  that !" 
She  bent  her  head  aside,  and  cried  upon  the  two 
hands  with  which  she  clutched  the  top  of  her  chair. 
Mrs.  Bowen  sat  looking  at  her  distractedly.  From 
time  to  time  she  seemed  to  silence  a  word  upon  her 
lips,  and  in  fact  she  did  not  speak. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  215 

Imogerie  lifted  her  head  at  last,  and  softly  dried 
her  eyes.  Then,  as  she  pushed  her  handkerchief 
back  into  the  pocket  of  her  robe,  "  What  sort  of 
looking  girl  was  that  other  one  ?" 

"That  other  one?" 

"  Yes  ;  you  know  what  I  mean  :  the  one  who  be- 
haved so  badly  to  him  before." 

"  Imogene  !"  said  Mrs.  Bowen  severely,  "  this  is 
nonsense,  and  I  can't  let  you  go  on  so.  I  might 
pretend  not  to  know  what  you  mean ;  but  I  won't 
do  that ;  and  I  tell  you  that  there  is  no  sort  of  like- 
ness— of  comparison " 

"  No,  no,"  wailed  the  girl,  "  there  is  none.  I  feel 
that.  She  had  nothing  to  warn  her — he  hadn't  suf- 
fered then  ;  he  was  young  ;  he  was  able  to  bear  it — 
you  said  it  yourself,  Mrs.  Bowen.  But  now — now, 
what  will  he  do  ?  He  could  make  fun  of  that,  and 
not  hate  her  so  much,  because  she  didn't  know  how 
much  harm  she  was  doing.  But  I  did ;  and  what 
can  he  think  of  me  V 

Mrs.  Bowen  looked  across  the  barrier  between 
them,  that  kept  her  from  taking  Imogene  into  her 
arms,  and  laughing  and  kissing  away  her  craze,  with 
cold  dislike,  and  only  said,  "You  know  whether 
you've  really  anything  to  accuse  yourself  of, 
Imogene.  I  can't  and  won't  consider  Mr.  Colville 
in  the  matter  ;  I  didn't  consider  him  in  what  I  said 
to-day.  And  I  tell  you  again  that  I  will  not  inter- 
fere with  you  in  the  slightest  degree  beyond  appear- 
ances and  the  responsibility  I  feel  to  your  mother. 
And  it 's  for  you  to  know  your  own  mind.  You  are 


216  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

old  enough.  I  will  do  what  you  say.  It 's  for  you 
to  be  sure  that  you  wish  what  you  say." 

"  Yes,"  said  Imogene  huskily,  and  she  let  an  in- 
terval that  was  long  to  them  both  elapse  before  she 
said  anything  more.  "Have  I  always  done  what 
you  thought  best,  Mrs.  Bo  wen  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  never  complained  of  you." 

"  Then  why  can't  you  tell  me  now  what  you  think 
best  1" 

"  Because  there  is  nothing  to  be  done.  It  is  all 
over." 

"  But  if  it  were  not,  would  you  tell  me  ?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I — couldn't." 

"  Then  I  take  back  my  promise  not  to  write  to 
Mr.  Colville.  I  am  going  to  ask  him  to  stay." 

"  Have  you  made  up  your  mind  to  that,  Imogene  1 " 
asked  Mrs.  Bowen,  showing  no  sign  of  excitement, 
except  to  take  a  faster  hold  of  her  own  wrists  with 
the  slim  hands  in  which  she  had  caught  them. 

"  Yes." 

"  You  know  the  position  it  places  you  in  ?" 

"  What  position  T' 

"  Has  he  offered  himself  to  you  ?  " 

"  No  ! "  the  girl's  face  blazed. 

"  Then,  after  what 's  passed,  this  is  the  same  as 
offering  yourself  to  him." 

Imogene  turned  white.  "I  must  write  to  him, 
unless  you  forbid  me." 

"Certainly  I  shall  not  forbid  you."     Mrs.  Bowen 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  217 

rose  and  went  to  her  writing-desk.  "But  if  you 
have  fully  made  up  your  mind  to  this  step,  and  are 

ready  for  the  consequences,  whatever  they  are " 

She  stopped,  before  sitting  down,  and  looked  back 
over  her  shoulder  at  Imogene. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl,  who  had  also  risen. 

"Then  I  will  write  to  Mr.  Colville  for  you,  and 
render  the  proceeding  as  little  objectionable  as  pos- 
sible." 

Imogene  made  no  reply.  She  stood  motionless 
while  Mrs.  Bowen  wrote. 

"  Is  this  what  you  wished  1"  asked  the  latter, 
offering  the  sheet : — 

"  DEAR  MR.  COLVILLE, — I  have  reasons  for  wishing  to 
recall  my  consent  to  your  going  away.  Will  you  not  come 
and  lunch  with  us  to-morrow,  and  try  to  forget  everything 
that  has  passed  during  a  few  days  ? 

u  Yours  very  sincerely, 

"  EVALINA  BOWEN." 

"  Yes,  that  will  do,"  gasped  Imogene. 

Mrs.  Bowen  rang  the  bell  for  the  porter,  and 
stood  with  her  back  to  the  girl,  waiting  for  him  at 
the  salon  door.  He  came  after  a  delay  that  suffi- 
ciently intimated  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  "  This 
letter  must  go  at  once  to  the  Hotel  d'Atene,"  said 
Mrs.  Bowen  peremptorily. 

"  You  shall  be  served,"  said  the  porter,  with  forti- 
tude. 

As  Mrs.  Bowen  turned,  Imogene  ran  toward  her 
with  clasped  hands.  "  Oh,  how  merciful — how 
good " 


218  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Mrs.  Bo  wen  shrank  back.  "  Don't  touch  me, 
Imogene,  please ! " 

It  was  her  letter  which  Colville  found  on  his 
table  and  read  by  the  struggling  light  of  his  newly 
acquired  candle.  Then  he  sat  down  and  replied  to 
it. 

"  DEAR  MRS.  BOWEN,  — I  know  that  you  mean  some  sort 
of  kindness  by  me,  and  I  hope  you  will  not  think  me 
prompted  by  any  poor  resentment  in  declining  to-morrow's 
lunch.  I  am  satisfied  that  it  is  best  for  me  to  go  ;  and  I 
am  ashamed  not  to  be  gone  already.  But  a  ridiculous 
accident  has  kept  me,  and  when  I  came  in  and  found  your 
note  I  was  just  going  to  write  and  ask  your  patience  with 
my  presence  in  Florence  till  Monday  morning. 
"  Yours  sincerely, 

"  THEODORE  COLVILLE." 

He  took  his  note  down  to  the  porter,  who  had 
lain  down  again  in  his  little  booth,  but  sprang  up 
with  a  cheerful  request  to  be  commanded.  Colville 
consulted  him  upon  the  propriety  of  sending  the 
note  to  Palazzo  Pinti  at  once,  and  the  porter,  with 
his  head  laid  in  deprecation  upon  one  of  his  lifted 
shoulders,  owned  that  it  was  perhaps  the  very  least 
little  bit  in  the  world  late. 

"  Send  it  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  then," 
said  Colville. 

Mrs.  Bowen  received  it  by  the  servant  who  brought 
her  coffee  to  the  room,  and  she  sent  it  without  any 
word  to  Imogene.  The  girl  came  instantly  back 
with  it.  She  was  fully  dressed,  as  if  she  had  been 
up  a  long  time,  and  she  wore  a  very  plain,  dull 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  219 

dress,  in  which  one  of  her  own  sex  might  have  read 
the  expression  of  a  potential  self-devotion. 

"  It's  just  as  I  wish  it,  Mrs.  Bowen,"  she  said,  in 
a-  low  key  of  impassioned  resolution.  "  Noiv,  my 
conscience  is  at  rest.  And  you  have  done  this  for 
me,  Mrs.  Bowen ! "  She  stood  timidly  with  the 
door  in  her  hand,  watching  Mrs.  Bowen's  slight 
smile ;  then,  as  if  at  some  sign  in  it,  she  flew  to  the 
bed  and  kissed  her,  and  so  fled  out  of  the  room 
again. 

Colville  slept  late,  and  awoke  with  a  vague  sense 
of  self-reproach,  which  faded  afterward  to  such  poor 
satisfaction  as  comes  to  us  from  the  consciousness  of 
having  made  the  best  of  a  bad  business ;  some  pangs 
of  softer  regret  mixed  with  this.  At  first  he  felt  a 
stupid  obligation  to  keep  indoors,  and  he  really  did 
not  go  out  till  after  lunch.  The  sunshine  had  looked 
cold  from  his  window,  and  with  the  bright  fire  which 
he  found  necessary  in  his  room,  he  fancied  a  bitter- 
ness in  the  gusts  that  caught  up  the  dust  in  the 
piazza,  and  blew  it  against  the  line  of  cabs  on  the 
other  side ;  but  when  he  got  out  into  the  weather 
he  found  the  breeze  mild  and  the  sun  warm.  The 
streets  were  thronged  with  people,  and  at  all  the 
corners  there  were  groups  of  cloaked  and  overcoated 
talkers,  soaking  themselves  full  of  the  sunshine.  The 
air  throbbed,  as  always,  with  the  sound  of  bells,  but 
it  was  a  mellower  and  opener  sound  than  before,  and 
looking  at  the  purple  bulk  of  one  of  those  hills  which 
seem  to  rest  like  clouds  at  the  end  of  each  avenue  in 
Florence,  Colville  saw  that  it  was  clear  of  snow.  He 


220  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

was  going  up  through  Via  Cavour  to  find  Mr.  Waters 
and  propose  a  walk,  but  he  met  him  before  he  had 
got  half-way  to  San  Marco. 

The  old  man  was  at  a  momentary  stand-still,  look- 
ing up  at  the  Biccardi  Palace,  and  he  received  Col- 
ville  with  apparent  forgetfulness  of  anything  odd  in 
his  being  still  in  Florence.  "  Upon  the  whole,"  he 
said,  without  preliminary  of  any  sort,  as  Colville 
turned  and  joined  him  in  walking  on,  "  I  don't 
know  any  homicide  that  more  distinctly  proves  the 
futility  of  assassination  as  a  political  measure  than 
that  over  yonder."  He  nodded  his  head  sidewise 
toward  the  palace  as  he  shuffled  actively  along  at 
Colville's  elbow. 

"  You  might  say  that  the  moment  when  Lorenzino 
killed  Alessandro  was  the  most  auspicious  for  a  deed 
of  that  kind.  The  Medici  had  only  recently  been 
restored  ;  Alessandro  was  the  first  ruler  in  Florence, 
who  had  worn  a  title ;  no  more  reckless,  brutal,  and 
insolent  tyrant  ever  lived,  and  his  right,  even  such 
as  the  Medici  might  have,  to  play  the  despot  was  in- 
volved in  the  doubt  of  his  origin ;  the  heroism  of 
the  great  siege  ought  still  to  have  survived  in  the 
people  who  withstood  the  forces  of  the  whole 
German  Empire  for  fifteen  months ;  it  seems  as  if 
the  taking  off  of  that  single  wretch  should  have 
ended  the  whole  Medicean  domination;  but  there 
was  not  a  voice  raised  to  second  the  homicide's 
appeal  to  the  old  love  of  liberty  in  Florence.  The 
Medici  party  were  able  to  impose  a  boy  of  eighteen 
upon  the  most  fiery  democracy  that  ever  existed, 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  221 

and  to  hunt  down  and  destroy  Alessandro's  murderer 
at  their  leisure.  No,"  added  the  old  man  thought- 
fully, "I  think  that  the  friends  of  progress  must 
abandon  assassination  as  invariably  useless.  The 
trouble  was  not  that  Alessandro  was  alive,  but  that 
Florence  was  dead.  Assassination  always  conies  too 
early  or  too  late  in  any  popular  movement.  It  may 
be,"  said  Mr.  Waters,  with  a  carefulness  to  do  justice 
to  assassination  which  made  Colville  smile,  "  that  the 
modern  scientific  spirits  may  be  able  to  evolve  some- 
thing useful  from  the  principle,  but  considering  the 
enormous  abuses  and  perversions  to  which  it  is  liable, 
I  am  very  doubtful  of  it — very  doubtful." 

Colville  laughed.  "I  like  your  way  of  bringing 
a  fresh  mind  to  all  these  questions  in  history  and 
morals,  whether  they  are  conventionally  settled  or 
not.  Don't  you  think  the  modern  scientific  spirit 
could  evolve  something  useful  out  of  the  old  classic 
idea  of  suicide  ? " 

"Perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Waters;  "I  haven't  yet 
thought  it  over.  The  worst  thing  about  suicide — 
and  this  must  always  rank  it  below  political  assassi- 
nation— is  that  its  interest  is  purely  personal.  No 
man  ever  kills  himself  for  the  good  of  others." 

"That's  certainly  against  it.  We  oughtn't  to 
countenance  such  an  abominably  selfish  practice. 
But  you  can't  bring  that  charge  against  euthanasy. 
What  have  you  to  say  of  that  1 " 

"I  have  heard  one  of  the  most  benevolent  and 
tender-hearted  men  I  ever  knew  defend  it  in  cases 
of  hopeless  suffering.  But  I  don't  know  that  I 


222  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

should  be  prepared  to  take  his  ground.  There 
appears  to  be  something  so  sacred  about  human 
life  that  we  must  respect  it  even  in  spite  of  the 
prayers  of  the  sufferer  who  asks  us  to  end  his  irre- 
mediable misery." 

"  Well,"  said  Colville,  "  I  suspect  we  must  at 
least  class  murder  with  the  ballet  as  a  means  of 
good.  One  might  say  there  was  still  some  virtue 
in  the  primal,  eldest  curse  against  bloodshed." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  by  any  means  deny  those  things," 
said  the  old  man,  with  the  air  of  wishing  to  be 
scrupulously  just.  "  Which  way  are  you  walking  1" 

"  Your  way,  if  you  will  let  me,"  replied  Colville. 
"  I  was  going  to  your  house  to  ask  you  to  take  a 
walk  with  me." 

"  Ah,  that 's  good.  I  was  reading  of  the  great 
siege  last  night,  and  I  thought  of  taking  a  look  at 
Michelangelo's  bastions.  Let  us  go  together,  if  you 
don't  think  you'll  find  it. too  fatiguing." 

"  I  shall  be  ashamed  to  complain  if  I  do." 

"  And  you  didn't  go  to  Eome  after  all  ? "  said  Mr. 
Waters. 

"  No ;  I  couldn't  face  the  landlord  with  a  petition 
so  preposterous  as  mine.  I  told  him  that  I  found 
I  had  no  money  to  pay  his  bill  till  I  had  seen  my 
banker,  and  as  he  didn't  propose  that  I  should  send 
him  the  amount  back  from  Rome,  I  stayed.  Land- 
lords have  their  limitations;  they  are  not  imagi- 
native, as  a  class." 

"  Well,  a  day  more  will  make  no  great  difference 
to  you,  I  suppose,"  said  the  old  man,  "and  a  day 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  223 

less  would  have  been  a  loss  to  me.  I  shall  miss 
you." 

"  Shall  you,  indeed  ? "  asked  Colville,  with  a 
grateful  stir  of  the  heart.  "  It  ;s  very  nice  of  you  to 
say  that." 

"  Oh  no.  I  meet  few  people  who  are  willing  to 
look  at  life  objectively  with  me,  and  I  have  fancied 
some  such  willingness  in  you.  What  I  chiefly  miss 
over  here  is  a  philosophic  lift  in  the  human  mind, 
but  probably  that  is  because  my  opportunities  of 
meeting  the  best  minds  are  few,  and  my  means 
of  conversing  with  them  are  small.  If  I  had  not 
the  whole  past  with  me,  I  should  feel  lonely  at 
times." ' 

"And  is  the  past  such  good  company  always  ?" 

"  Yes,  in  a  sense  it  is.  The  past  is  humanity  set 
free  from  circumstance,  and  history  studied  where 
it  was  once  life  is  the  past  rehumanised." 

As  if  he  found  this  rarefied  air  too  thin  for  his 
lungs,  Colville  made  some  ineffectual  gasps  at  re- 
sponse, and  the  old  man  continued  :  "  What  I  mean 
is  that  I  meet  here  the  characters  I  read  of,  and 
commune  with  them  before  their  errors  were  com- 
mitted, before  they  had  condemned  themselves  to 
failure,  while  they  were  still  wise  and  sane,  and  still 
active  and  vital  forces." 

"  Did  they  all  fail  ?  I  thought  some  of  the  bad 
fellows  had  a  pretty  fair  worldly  success  ? " 

"The  blossom  of  decay." 

"  Oh  !  what  black  pessimism  ! " 

"  Not  at  all  !     Men  fail,  but  man  succeeds.     I 


224  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

don't  know  what  it  all  means,  or  any  part  of  it ;  but 
I  have  had  moods  in  which  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole 
secret  of  the  mystery  were  about  to  flash  upon  me. 
Walking  along  in  the  full  sun,  in  the  midst  of  men, 
or  sometimes  in  the  solitude  of  midnight,  poring  over 
a  book,  and  thinking  of  quite  other  things,  I  have 
felt  that  I  had  almost  surprised  it." 

"  But  never  quite  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  too  late  yet." 

"  I  hope  you  won't  have  your  revelation  before  I 
get  away  from  Florence,  or  I  shall  see  them  burning 
you  here  like  the  great  frate." 

They  had  been  walking  down  the  Via  Calzioli  from 
the  Duomo,  and  now  they  came  out  into  the  Piazza 
della  Signoria,  suddenly,  as  one  always  seems  to  do, 
upon  the  rise  of  the  old  palace  and  the  leap  of  its 
tower  into  the  blue  air.  The  history  of  all  Florence 
is  there,  with  memories  of  every  great  time  in  bronze 
or  marble,  but  the  supreme  presence  is  the  martyr 
who  hangs  for  ever  from  the  gibbet  over  the  quench- 
less fire  in  the  midst. 

"  Ah,  they  had  to  kill  him  ! "  sighed  the  old  man. 
"  It  has  always  been  so  with  the  benefactors.  They 
have  always  meant  mankind  more  good  than  any  one 
generation  can  bear,  and  it  must  turn  upon  them  and 
destroy  them." 

"  How  will  it  be  with  you,  then,  when  you  have 
read  us  '  the  riddle  of  the  painful  earth '  1" 

"  That  will  be  so  simple  that  every  one  will  accept 
it  willingly  and  gladly,  and  wonder  that  no  one 
happened  to  think  of  it  before.  And,  perhaps,  the 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  225 

world  is  now  grown  old  enough  and  docile  enough  to 
receive  the  truth  without  resentment." 

"  I  take  back  my  charge  of  pessimism,"  said 
Colville.  "  You  are  an  optimist  of  the  deepest  dye." 

They  walked  out  of  the  Piazza  and  down  to  the 
Lung'  Arno,  through  the  corridor  of  the  Uffizzi,  where 
the  illustrious  Florentines  stand  in  marble  under  the 
arches,  all  reconciled  and  peaceful  and  equal  at  last 
Colville  shivered  a  little  as  he  passed  between  the 
silent  ranks  of  the  statues. 

"  I  can't  stand  those  fellows,  to-day.  They  seem 
to  feel  such  a  smirk  satisfaction  at  having  got  out  of 
it  all." 

They  issued  upon  the  river,  and  he  went  to  the 
parapet  and  looked  down  on  the  water.  "  I  wonder," 
he  mused  aloud,  "  if  it  has  the  same  Sunday  look  to 
these  Sabbathless  Italians  as  it  has  to  us." 

"  No ;  Nature  isn't  puritan,"  replied  the  old 
minister. 

"  Not  at  Haddam  East  Village  1 " 

"  No  ;  there  less  than  here ;  for  she 's  had  to  make 
a  harder  fight  for  her  life  there." 

"  Ah,  then  you  believe  in  Nature — you  're  a  friend 
of  Nature  ? "  asked  Colville,  following  the  lines  of  an 
oily  swirl  in  the  current  with  indolent  eye. 

"  Only  up  to  a  certain  point."  Mr.  Waters  seemed 
to  be  patient  of  any  direction  which  the  other  might 
be  giving  the  talk.  "  Nature  is  a  savage.  She  has 
good  impulses,  but  you  can't  trust  her  altogether." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Colville,  "  I  don't  think 
there 's  very  much  of  her  left  in  us  after  we  reach  a 
p 


226  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

certain  point  in  life  '{  She  drives  us  on  at  a  great 
pace  for  a  while,  and  then  some  fine  morning  we 
wake  up  and  find  that  Nature  has  got  tired  of  us  and 
has  left  us  to  taste  and  conscience.  And  taste  and 
conscience  are  by  no  means  so  certain  of  what  they 
want  you  to  do  as  Nature  was." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  minister,  "  I  see  what  you  mean." 
He  joined  Colville  in  leaning  on  the  parapet,  and  he 
looked  out  on  the  river  as  if  he  saw  his  meaning 
there.  "  But  by  the  time  we  reach  that  point  in  life 
most  of  us  have  got  the  direction  which  Nature  meant 
us  to  take,  and  there 's  no  longer  any  need  of  her 
driving  us  on." 

"  And  what  about  the  unlucky  fellows  who  haven't 
got  the  direction,  or  haven't  kept  it  ? " 

"  They  had  better  go  back  to  it." 

"  But  if  Nature  herself  seemed  to  change  her  mind 
about  you  ? " 

"  Ah,  you  mean  persons  of  weak  will.  They  are 
a  great  curse  to  themselves  and  to  everybody  else." 

"  I  'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Colville.  "  I  Ve 
seen  cases  in  which  a  strong  will  looked  very  much 
more  like  the  devil." 

"Yes,  a  perverted  will.  But  there  can  be  no 
good  without  a  strong  will.  A  weak  will  means 
inconstancy.  It  means,  even  in  good,  good  attempted 
and  relinquished,  which  is  always  a  terrible  thing, 
because  it  is  sure  to  betray  some  one  who  relied  upon 
its  accomplishment." 

"  And  in  evil  ?  Perhaps  the  evil,  attempted  and 
relinquished,  turns  into  good." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  227 

"  Oh,  never ! "  replied  the  minister  fervently. 
"There  is  something  very  mysterious  in  what  we 
call  evil.  Apparently  it  has  infinitely  greater  force 
and  persistence  than  good.  I  don't  know  why  it 
should  be  so.  But  so  it  appears." 

"  You  '11  have  the  reason  of  that  along  with  the  rest 
of  the  secret  when  your  revelation  comes,"  said  Col- 
ville,  with  a  smile.  He  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  river, 
and  looked  up  over  the  clustering  roofs  beyond  it 
to  the  hills  beyond  them,  flecked  to  the  crest  of  their 
purple  slopes  with  the  white  of  villas  and  villages.  As 
if  something  in  the  beauty  of  the  wonderful  prospect 
had  suggested  the  vision  of  its  opposite,  he  said, 
dreamily,  "  I  don't  think  I  shall  go  to  Rome  to-mor- 
row, after  all.  I  will  go  to  Des  Yaches  !  Where 
did  you  say  you  were  walking,  Mr.  Waters  ?  Oh 
yes  !  You  told  me.  I  will  cross  the  bridge  with  you. 
But  I  couldn't  stand  anything  quite  so  vigorous  as 
the  associations  of  the  siege  this  afternoon.  I  'm 
going  to  the  Boboli  Gardens,  to  debauch  myself  with 
a  final  sense  of  nerveless  despotism,  as  it  expressed 
itself  in  marble  allegory  and  formal  alleys.  The 
fact  is  that  if  I  stay  with  you  any  longer  I  shall  tell 
you  something  that  I  'm  too  old  to  tell  and  you  're 
too  old  to  hear."  The  old  man  smiled,  but  offered 
no  "urgence  or  comment,  and  at  the  thither  end  of 
the  bridge  Colville  said  hastily,  "  Good-bye.  If  you 
ever  come  to  Des  Vaches,  look  me  up." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  the  minister.  "  Perhaps  we 
shall  meet  in  Florence  again." 

"  No,  no.     Whatever  happens,  that  won't." 


228  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

They  shook  hands  and  parted.  Colville  stood  a 
moment,  watching  the  slight  bent  figure  of  the  old 
man  as  he  moved  briskly  up  the  Via  de'  Bardi,  turn- 
ing his  head  from  side  to  side,  to  look  at  the  palaces 
as  he  passed,  and  so  losing  himself  in  the  dim, 
cavernous  curve  of  the  street.  As  soon  as  he  was 
out  of  sight,  Colville  had  an  impulse  to  hurry  after 
him  and  rejoin  him  ;  then  he  felt  like  turning  about 
and  going  back  to  his  hotel. 

But  he  shook  himself  together  into  the  shape  of 
resolution,  however  slight  and  transient.  "  I  must 
do  something  I  intended  to  do,"  he  said,  between 
his  set  teeth,  and  pushed  on  up  through  the  Via 
Guicciardini.  "I  will  go  to  the  Boboli  because  I 
said  I  would." 

As  he  walked  along,  he  seemed  to  himself  to  be 
merely  crumbling  away  in  this  impulse  and  that,  in 
one  abortive  intent  and  another.  What  did  it  all 
mean  1  Had  he  been  his  whole  life  one  of  these 
weak  wills  which  are  a  curse  to  themselves  and 
others,  and  most  a  curse  when  they  mean  the  best  1 
Was  that  the  secret  of  his  failure  in  life  ]  But  for 
many  years  he  had  seemed  to  succeed,  to  be  as  other 
men  were,  hard,  practical  men  ;  he  had  once  made  a 
good  newspaper,  which  was  certainly  not  a  dream  of 
romance.  Had  he  given  that  up  at  last  because  he 
was  a  weak  will.  ?  And  now  was  he  running  away 
from  Florence  because  his  will  was  weak  ?  He  could 
look  back  to  that  squalid  tragedy  of  his  youth,  and 
see  that  a  more  violent,  a  more  determined  man 
could  have  possessed  himself  of  the  girl  whom  he 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  229 

had  lost.  And  now  would  it  not  be  more  manly,  if 
more  brutal,  to  stay  here,  where  a  hope,  however 
fleeting,  however  fitful,  of  what  might  have  been, 
had  revisited  him  in  the  love  of  this  young  girl  ] 
He  felt  sure,  if  anything  were  sure,  that  something 
in  him,  in  spite  of  their  wide  disparity  of  years,  had 
captured  her  fancy,  and  now,  in  his  abasement,  he 
felt  again  the  charm  of  his  own  power  over  her. 
They  were  no  farther  apart  in  years  than  many  a 
husband  and  wife ;  they  would  grow  more  and 
more  together ;  there  was  youth  enough  in  his  heart 
yet ;  and  who  was  pushing  him  away  from  her,  for- 
bidding him  this  treasure  that  he  had  but  to  put  out 
his  hand  and  make  his  own  ?  Some  one  whom 
through  all  his  thoughts  of  another  he  was  trying  to 
please,  but  whom  he  had  made  finally  and  inexor- 
ably his  enemy.  Better  stay,  then,  something  said 
to  him  ;  and  when  he  answered,  "  I  will,"  something 
else  reminded  him  that  this  also  was  not  willing  but 
unwilling. 


XIV. 

WHEN  he  entered  the  beautiful  old  garden,  its 
benison  of  peace  fell  upon  his  tumult,  and  he  began 
to  breathe  a  freer  air,  reverting  to  his  purpose  to  be 
gone  in  the  morning  and  resting  in  it,  as  he  strolled 
up  the  broad  curve  of  its  alley  from  the  gate.  He 
had  not  been  there  since  he  walked  there  with  one 
now  more  like  a  ghost  to  him  than  any  of  the  dead 
who  had  since  died.  It  was  there  that  she  had 
refused  him ;  he  recalled  with  a  grim  smile  the 
awkwardness  of  getting  back  with  her  to  the  gate 
from  the  point,  far  within  the  garden,  where  he  had 
spoken.  Except  that  this  had  happened  in  the  fall, 
and  now  it  was  early  spring,  there  seemed  no  change 
since  then ;  the  long  years  that  had  elapsed  were 
like  a  winter  between. 

He  met  people  in  groups  and  singly  loitering 
through  the  paths,  and  chiefly  speaking  English ; 
but  no  one  spoke  to  him,  and  no  one  invaded  the 
solitude  in  which  he  walked.  But  the  garden  itself 
seemed  to  know  him,  and  to  give  him  a  tacit  recog- 
nition; the  great,  foolish  grotto  before  the  gate,  with 
its  statues  by  Bandinelli,  and  the  fantastic  effects 

230 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  231 

of  drapery  and  flesh  in  party-coloured  statues  lifted 
high  on  either  side  of  the  avenue ;  the  vast  shoulder 
of  wall,  covered  thick  with  ivy  and  myrtle,  which 
he  passed  on  his  way  to  the  amphitheatre  behind 
the  palace ;  the  alternate  figures  and  urns  on  their 
pedestals  in  the  hemicycle,  as  if  the  urns  were  placed 
there  to  receive  the  ashes  of  the  figures  when  they 
became  extinct;  the  white  statues  or  the  colossal 
busts  set  at  the  ends  of  the  long  alleys  against  black 
curtains  of  foliage ;  the  big  fountain,  with  its  group 
in  the  centre  of  the  little  lake,  and  the  meadow, 
quiet  and  sad,  that  stretched  away  on  one  side  from 
this ;  the  keen  light  under  the  levels  of  the  dense 
pines  and  ilexes ;  the  paths  striking  straight  on 
either  hand  from  the  avenue  through  which  he 
sauntered,  and  the  walk  that  coiled  itself  through 
the  depths  of  the  plantations;  all  knew  him,  and 
from  them  and  from  the  winter  neglect  which  was 
upon  the  place  distilled  a  subtle  influence,  a  charm, 
an  appeal  belonging  to  that  combination  of  artifice 
and  nature  which  is  perfect  only  in  an  Italian 
garden  under  an  Italian  sky.  He  was  right  in  the 
name  which  he  mockingly  gave  the  effect  before  he 
felt  it;  it  was  a  debauch,  delicate,  refined,  of  un- 
serious  pensiveness,  a  smiling  melancholy,  in  which 
he  walked  emancipated  from  his  harassing  hopes, 
and  keeping  only  his  shadowy  regrets. 

Colville  did  not  care  to  scale  the  easy  height  from 
which  you  have  the  magnificent  view,  conscious  of 
many  photographs,  of  Florence.  He  wandered  about 
the  skirts  of  that  silent  meadow,  and  seeing  himself 


232  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

unseen,  he  invaded  its  borders  far  enough  to  pluck 
one  of  those  large  scarlet  anemones,  such  as  he  had 
given  his  gentle  enemy.  It  was  tilting  there  in  the 
breeze  above  the  unkempt  grass,  and  the  grass  was 
beginning  to  feel  the  spring,  and  to  stir  and  stretch 
itself  after  its  winter  sleep;  it  was  sprinkled  with 
violets,  but  these  he  did  not  molest.  He  came  back 
to  a  stained  and  mossy  stone  bench  on  the  avenue, 
fronting  a  pair  of  rustic  youths  carved  in  stone,  who 
had  not  yet  finished  some  game  in  which  he  remem- 
bered seeing  them  engaged  when  he  was  there  before. 
He  had  not  walked  fast,  but  he  had  walked  far,  and 
was  warm  enough  to  like  the  whiffs  of  soft  wind  on 
his  uncovered  head.  The  spring  was  coming ;  that 
was  its  breath,  which  you  know  unmistakably  in 
Italy  after  all  the  kisses  that  winter  gives.  Some 
birds  were  singing  in  the  trees ;  down  an  alley  into 
which  he  could  look,  between  the  high  walls  of 
green,  he  could  see  two  people  in  flirtation :  he 
waited  patiently  till  the  young  man  should  put  his 
arm  round  the  girl's  waist,  for  the  fleeting  embrace 
from  which  she  pushed  it  and  fled  further  down  the 
path. 

"  Yes,  it 's  spring,"  thought  Colville ;  and  then, 
with  the  selfishness  of  the  troubled  soul,  he  wished 
that  it  might  be  winter  still  and  indefinitely.  It 
occurred  to  him  now  that  he  should  not  go  back  to 
Des  Vaches,  for  he  did  not  know  what  he  should  do 
there.  He  would  go  to  New  York  :  though  he  did 
not  know  what  he  should  do  in  New  York,  either. 

He  became  tired  of  looking  at  the  people  who 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  233 

passed,  and  of  speculating  about  them  through  the 
second  consciousness  which  enveloped  the  sad  sub- 
stance of  his  misgivings  like  an  atmosphere;  and 
he  let  his  eyelids  fall,  as  he  leaned  his  head  back 
against  the  tree  behind  his  bench.  Then  their 
voices  pursued  him  through  the  twilight  that  he  had 
made  himself,  and  forced  him  to  the  same  weary 
conjecture  as  if  he  had  seen  their  faces.  He  heard 
gay  laughter,  and  laughter  that  affected  gaiety  ;  the 
tones  of  young  men  in  earnest  disquisition  reached 
him  through  the  veil,  and  the  talk,  falling  to  whisper, 
of  girls,  with  the  names  of  men  in  it ;  sums  of  money, 
a  hundred  francs,  forty  thousand  francs,  came  in  high 
tones ;  a  husband  and  wife  went  by  quarrelling  in 
the  false  security  of  English,  and  snapping  at  each 
other  as  confidingly  as  if  in  the  sanctuary  of  home. 
The  man  bade  the  woman  not  be  a  fool,  and  she 
asked  him  how  she  was  to  endure  his  company  if 
she  was  not  a  fool. 

Colville  opened  his  eyes  to  look  after  them,  when 
a  voice  that  he  knew  called  out,  "  Why,  it  is  Mr. 
Colville!" 

It  was  Mrs.  Amsden,  and  pausing  with  her,  as  if 
they  had  passed  him  in  doubt,  and  arrested  them- 
selves when  they  had  got  a  little  way  by,  were  Erne 
Bowen  and  Imogene  Graham.  The  old  lady  had  the 
child  by  the  hand,  and  the  girl  stood  a  few  paces 
apart  from  them.  She  was  one  of  those  beauties 
who  have  the  property  of  looking  very  plain  at  times, 
and  Colville,  who  had  seen  her  in  more  than  one 
transformation,  now  beheld  her  somehow  clumsy  of 


234  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

feature,  and  with  the  youth  gone  from  her  aspect. 
She  seemed  a  woman  of  thirty,  and  she  wore  an  un- 
becoming walking  dress  of  a  fashion  that  contributed 
to  this  effect  of  age.  Colville  was  aware  afterward 
of  having  wished  that  she  was  really  as  old  and 
plain  as  she  looked. 

He  had  to  come  forward,  and  put  on  the  conven- 
tional delight  of  a  gentleman  meeting  lady  friends. 

"  It }s  remarkable  how  your  having  your  eyes  shut 
estranged  you,"  said  Mrs.  Amsden.  "  Now,  if  you 
had  let  me  see  you  oftener  in  church,  where  people 
close  their  eyes  a  good  deal  for  one  purpose  or 
another,  I  should  have  known  you  at  once." 

"  I  hope  you  haven't  lost  a  great  deal  of  time,  as 
it  is,  Mrs.  Amsden,"  said  Colville.  "  Of  course  I 
should  have  had  my  eyes  open  if  I  had  known  you 
were  going  by." 

"  Oh,  don't  apologise  ! "  cried  the  old  thing,  with 
ready  enjoyment  of  his  tone. 

"  I  don't  apologise  for  not  being  recognisable ;  I 
apologise  for  being  visible,"  said  Colville,  with  some 
shapeless  impression  that  he  ought  to  excuse  his 
continued  presence  in  Florence  to  Imogene,  but 
keeping  his  eyes  upon  Mrs.  Amsden,  to  whom  what 
he  said  could  not  be  intelligible.  "  I  ought  to  be  in 
Turin  to-day." 

"In Turin  !   Are  you  going  away  from  Florence  V 

"I'm  going  home." 

"Why,  did  you  know  that  1"  asked  the  old  lady 
of  Imogene,  who  slightly  nodded,  and  then  of  Effie, 
who  also  assented.  "Really,  the  silence  of  the 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  235 

Bowen  family  in  regard  to  the  affairs  of  others  is 
extraordinary.  There  never  was  a  family  more 
eminently  qualified  to  live  in  Florence.  I  dare  say 
that  if  I  saw  a  little  more  of  them,  I  might  hope  to 
reach  the  years  of  discretion  myself  some  day.  Why 
are  you  going  away1?  (You  see  I  haven't  reached 
them  yet !)  Are  you  tired  of  Florence  already  ]  " 

"  No,"  said  Colville  passively  ;  "  Florence  is  tired 
of  me." 

< '  You  're  quite  sure  1 " 

"  Yes ;  there 's  no  mistaking  one  of  her  sex  on 
such  a  point." 

Mrs.  Amsden  laughed.  "  Ah,  a  great  many  people 
mistake  us,  both  ways.  And  you  're  really  going 
back  to  America.  What  in  the  world  for  1 " 

"  I  haven't  the  least  idea." 

"  Is  America  fonder  of  you  than  Florence  ?  " 

"  She  's  never  told  her  love.  I  suspect  it  Js  merely 
that  she  's  more  used  to  me." 

They  were  walking,  without  any  volition  of  his, 
down  the  slope  of  the  broad  avenue  to  the  fountain, 
where  he  had  already  been. 

"  Is  your  mother  well  1 "  he  asked  of  the  little  girl. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  better  not  speak  to 
Imqgene,  who  still  kept  that  little  distance  from  the 
rest,  and  get  away  as  soon  as  he  decently  could. 

"  She  has  a  headache,"  said  Effie. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  sorry,"  returned  Colville. 

"  Yes,  she  deputed  me  to  take  her  young  people  out 
for  an  airing,"  said  Mrs.  Amsden ;  "  and  Miss  Graham 
decided  us  for  the  Boboli,  where  she  hadn't  been  yet. 


236  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

I  Ve  done  what  I  could  to  make  the  place  attractive. 
But  what  is  an  old  woman  to  do  for  a  girl  in  a  garden  ] 
We  ought  to  have  brought  some  other  young  people 
— some  of  the  Inglehart  boys.  But  we  're  respect- 
able, we  Americans  abroad ;  we  're  decorous,  above 
all  things  ;  and  I  don't  know  about  meeting  you  here, 
Mr.  Colville.  It  has  a  very  bad  appearance.  Are 
you  sure  that  you  didn't  know  I  was  to  go  by  here 
at  exactly  half -past  four  1 " 

"  I  was  living  from  breath  to  breath  in  the  ex- 
pectation of  seeing  you.  You  must  have  noticed 
how  eagerly  I  was  looking  out  for  you." 

"  Yes,  and  with  a  single  red  anemone  in  your  hand, 
so  that  I  should  know  you  without  being  obliged  to 
put  on  my  spectacles." 

"  You  divine  everything,  Mrs.  Amsden,"  he  said, 
giving  her  the  flower. 

"  I  shall  make  my  brags  to  Mrs.  Bo  wen  when  I 
see  her,"  said  the  old  lady.  "How  far  into  the 
country  did  you  walk  for  this  1 " 

"  As  far  as  the  meadow  yonder." 

They  had  got  down  to  the  sheet  of  water  from 
which  the  sea-horses  of  the  fountain  sprang,  and  the 
old  lady  sank  upon  a  bench  near  it.  Colville  held 
out  his  hand  toward  Erne.  "  I  saw  a  lot  of  violets 
over  there  in  the  grass." 

"  Did  you  ? "  She  put  her  hand  eagerly  into  his, 
and  they  strolled  off  together.  After  a  first  motion 
to  accompany  them,  Imogene  sat  down  beside  Mrs. 
Amsden,  answering  quietly  the  talk  of  the  old  lady, 
and  seeming  in  nowise  concerned  about  the  expedi- 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  237 

tion  for  violets.  Except  for  a  dull  first  glance,  she 
did  not  look  that  way.  Colville  stood  in  the  border  of 
the  grass,  and  the  child  ran  quickly  hither  and  thither 
in  it,  stooping  from  time  to  time  upon  the  flowers. 
Then  she  came  out  to  where  he  stood,  and  showed 
her  bunch  of  violets,  looking  up  into  the  face  which 
he  bent  upon  her,  while  he  trifled  with  his  cane. 
He  had  a  very  fatherly  air  with  her. 

"  I  think  I  '11  go  and  see  what  they  Ve  found," 
said  Imogene  irrelevantly,  to  a  remark  of  Mrs. 
Amsden's  about  the  expensiveness  of  Madame  Bossi's 
bonnets. 

"Well,"  said  the  old  lady.  Imogene  started, 
and  the  little  girl  ran  to  meet  her.  She  detained 
Erne  with  her  admiration  of  the  violets  till  Colville 
lounged  reluctantly  up.  "  Go  and  show  them  to  Mrs. 
Amsden,"  she  said,  giving  back  the  violets,  which 
she  had  been  smelling.  The  child  ran  on.  "Mr. 
Colville,  I  want  to  speak  with  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  Colville  helplessly. 

"  Why  are  you  going  away  ? " 

"  Why  ?  Oh,  I  Ve  accomplished  the  objects — or 
no-objects — I  came  for,"  he  said,  with  dreary  trivi- 
ality, "  and  I  must  hurry  away  to  other  fields  of 
activity."  He  kept  his  eyes  on  her  face,  which  he 
saw  full  of  a  passionate  intensity,  working  to  some 
sort  of  overflow. 

"  That  is  not  true,  and  you  needn't  say  it  to  spare 
me.  You  are  going  away  because  Mrs.  Bowen  said 
something  to  you  about  me." 

"  Not  quite  that,"  returned  Colville  gently. 


238  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  No  ;  it  was  something  that  she  said  to  me  about 
you.  But  it 's  the  same  thing.  It  makes  no  differ- 
ence. I  ask  you  not  to  go  for  that." 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying,  Imogene  ?" 

"Yes." 

Colville  waited  a  long  moment.  "  Then,  I  thank 
you,  you  dear  girl,  and  I  am  going  to-morrow,  all 
the  same.  But  I  shan't  forget  this;  whatever  my 
life  is  to  be,  this  will  make  it  less  unworthy  and  less 
unhappy.  If  it  could  buy  anything  to  give  you  joy, 
to  add  some  little  grace  to  the  good  that  must  come 
to  you,  I  would  give  it.  Some  day  you  11  meet  the 
young  fellow  whom  you  're  to  make  immortal,  and 
you  must  tell  him  of  an  old  fellow  who  knew  you 
afar  off,  and  understood  how  to  worship  you  for  an 
angel  of  pity  and  unselfishness.  Ah,  I  hepe  he  '11 
understand,  too  !  Good-bye."  If  he  was  to  fly,  that 
was  the  sole  instant.  He  took  her  hand,  and  said 
again,  "  Good-bye."  And  then  he  suddenly  cried, 
"  Imogene,  do  you  wish  me  to  stay  ?  " 

"  Yes  ! "  said  the  girl,  pouring  all  the  intensity  of 
her  face  into  that  whisper. 

"  Even  if  there  had  been  nothing  said  to  make  me 
go  away — should  you  still  wish  me  to  stay  ? " 

"Yes." 

He  looked  her  in  the  starry,  lucid  eyes,  where  a 
divine  fervour  deepened.  He  sighed  in  nerveless 
perplexity ;  it  was  she  who  had  the  courage. 

"  It 's  a  mistake  !  You  mustn't !  I  am  too  old 
for  you  !  It  would  be  a  wrong  and  a  cruelty  !  Yes, 
you  must  let  me  go,  and  forget  me.  I  have  been  to 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  239 

blame.  If  Mrs.  Bowen  has  blamed  me,  she  was  right 
— I  deserved  it ;  I  deserved  all  she  could  say  against 
me." 

"  She  never  said  anything  against  you.  Do  you 
think  I  would  have  let  her  ?  No ;  it  was  I  that  said 
it,  and  I  blamed  you.  It  was  because  I  thought  that 
you  were — you  were " 

"  Trifling  with  you  1    How  could  you  think  that  1" 

"Yes,  I  know  now  how  it  was,  and  it  makes  you 
seem  all  the  grander  to  me.  Did  you  think  I  cared 
for  your  being  older  than  I  was  ?  I  never  cared  for 
it — I  never  hardly  thought  of  it  after  the  very  first 
I  tried  to  make  you  understand  that,  and  how  it  hurt 
me  to  have  you  speak  of  it.  Don't  you  think  that  I 
could  see  how  good  you  were  1  Do  you  suppose  that 
all  I  want  is  to  be  happy  ?  I  don't  care  for  that — I 
despise  it,  and  I  always  hate  myself  for  seeking  my 
own  pleasure,  if  I  find  myself  doing  it.  I  have  seen 
enough  of  life  to  know  what  that  comes  to  !  And 
what  hurt  me  worst  of  all  was  that  you  seemed  to 
believe  that  I  cared  for  nothing  but  amusing  myself, 
when  I  wished  to  be  something  better,  higher  !  It 's 
nothing  whether  you  are  of  my  age  or  not,  if — if— 
you  care  for  me." 

"  Imogene  ! " 

"  All  that  I  ask  is  to  be  with  you,  and  try  to  make 
you  forget  what 's  been  sad  in  your  life,  and  try  to 
be  of  use  to  you  in  whatever  you  are  doing,  and  I 
shall  be  prouder  and  gladder  of  that  than  anything 
that  people  call  happiness." 

Colville  stood  holding  her  hand,  while  she  uttered 


240  INDIAN  SUMMER, 

these  ideas  and  incoherent  repetitions  of  them,  with 
a  deep  sense  of  powerlessness.  "If  I  believed  that 
I  could  keep  you  from  regretting  this " 

"  What  should  I  regret  ?  I  won't  let  you  depreci- 
ate yourself — make  yourself  out  not  good  enough 
for  the  best.  Oh,  I  know  how  it  happened  !  But 
now  you  shall  never  think  of  it  again.  No  ;  I  will 
not  let  you.  That  is  the  only  way  you  could  make 
me  regret  anything." 

"  I  am  going  to  stay,"  said  Colville.  "  But  on 
my  own  terms.  I  will  be  bound  to  you,  but  you 
shall  not  be  bound  to  me." 

"  You  doubt  me  !  I  would  rather  have  you  go  ! 
No  ;  stay.  And  let  me  prove  to  you  how  wrong 
you  are.  I  mustn't  ask  more  than  that.  Only  give 
me  the  chance  to  show  you  how  different  I  am  from 
what  you  think — how  different  you  are,  too." 

"  Yes.     But  you  must  be  free." 

"  Well." 

"  What  are  they  doing  so  long  there  f  asked  Mrs. 
Amsden  of  Effie,  putting  her  glasses  to  her  eyes.  "  I 
can't  see." 

"  They  are  just  holding  hands,"  said  the  child, 
with  an  easy  satisfaction  in  the  explanation,  which 
perhaps  the  old  lady  did  not  share.  "  He  always 
holds  my  hand  when  he  is  with  me." 

"  Does  he,  indeed  1 "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Amsden,  with 
a  cackle.  She  added,  "That's  very  polite  of  him, 
isn't  it  ?  You  must  be  a  great  favourite  with  Mr. 
Colville.  You  will  miss  him  when  he 's  gone." 

"Yes.     He  's  very  nice." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  241 

Colville  and  Imogene  returned,  coming  slowly 
across  the  loose,  neglected  grass  toward  the  old 
woman's  seat.  She  rose  as  they  came  up. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  have  succeeded  so  well  in 
getting  flowers  for  Miss  Graham  as  for  the  other 
ladies.  But  perhaps  you  didn't  find  her  favourite 
over  there.  What  is  your  favourite  flower,  Miss 
Graham "?  Don't  say  you  have  none  !  I  didn't 
know  that  X  preferred  scarlet  anemones.  Were  there 
no  forget-me-nots  over  there  in  the  grass  ? " 

"There  was  no  occasion  for  them,"  answered 
Colvilte. 

"You  always  did  make  such  pretty  speeches!" 
said  the  old  lady.  "  And  they  have  such  an  orphic 
character,  too ;  you  can  interpret  them  in  so  many 
different  ways.  Should  you  mind  saying  just  what 
you  meant  by  that  one  1" 

"  Yes,  very  much,"  replied  Colville. 

The  old  lady  laughed  with  cheerful  resignation. 
She  would  as  lief  report  that  reply  of  his  as  another. 
Even  more  than  a  man  whom  she  could  entangle  in 
his  speech  she  liked  a  man  who  could  slip  through 
the  toils  with  unfailing  ease.  Her  talk  with  such  a 
man  was  the  last  consolation  which  remained  to  her 
from  a  life  of  harmless  coquetries. 

"  I  will  refer  it  to  Mrs.  Bowen,"  she  said.  "  She 
is  a  very  wise  woman,  and  she  used  to  know  you  a 
great  while  ago." 

"  If  you  like,  I  will  do  it  for  you,  Mrs.  Amsden. 
I  'm  going  to  see  her." 

"  To  renew  your  adieux  1  Well,  why  not  1  Part- 
Q 


242  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

ing  is  such  sweet  sorrow  !  And  if  I  were  a  young 
man  I  would  go  to  say  good-bye  to  Mrs.  Bowen  as 
often  as  she  would  let  me.  Now  tell  me  honestly, 
Mr.  Colville,  did  you  ever  see  such  an  exquisite, 
perfect  creature  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that's  asking  a  good  deal." 

"  What  1 " 

11  To  tell  you  a  thing  honestly.  How  did  you 
come  here,  Mrs.  Amsden  1 " 

"  In  Mrs.  Bowen's  carriage.  I  sent  it  round  from 
the  Pitti  entrance  to  the  Porta  Roman  a.  It 's  wait- 
ing there  now,  I  suppose." 

"  I  thought  you  had  been  corrupted,  somehow. 
Your  zeal  is  carriage-bought.  It  is  a  delightful 
vehicle.  Do  you  think  you  could  give  me  a  lift 
home  in  it  1 " 

11  Yes,  indeed.  I've  always  a  seat  for  you  in  my 
carriage.  To  Hotel  d'Atene  1 " 

"  No,  to  Palazzo  Pinti." 

"  This  is  deliciously  mysterious,"  said  Mrs.  Ams- 
den, drawing  her  shawl  up  about  her  shoulders, 
which,  if  no  longer  rounded,  had  still  a  charming 
droop.  One  realises  in  looking  at  such  old  ladies 
that  there  are  women  who  could  manage  their  own 
skeletons  winningly.  She  put  up  her  glasses,  which 
were  an  old-fashioned  sort,  held  to  the  nose  by  a 
handle,  and  perused  the  different  persons  of  the  group. 
"Mr.  Colville  concealing  an  inward  trepidation  under 
a  bold  front ;  Miss  Graham  agitated  but  firm ;  the 
child  as  much  puzzled  as  the  old  woman.  I  feel  that 
we  are  a  very  interesting  group — almost  dramatic." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  243 

"  Oh,  call  us  a  passage  from  a  modern  novel,"  sug- 
gested Colville,  "if  you're  in  the  romantic  mood. 
One  of  Mr.  James's." 

"Don't  you  think  we  ought  to  be  rather  more  of 
the  great  world  for  that  1  '  I  hardly  feel  up  to  Mr. 
James.  I  should  have  said  Howells.  Only  nothing 
happens  in  that  case  ! " 

"  Oh,  very  well ;  that 's  the  most  comfortable  way. 
If  it 's  only  Howells,  there 's  no  reason  why  I  shouldn't 
go  with  Miss  Graham  to  show  her  the  view  of  Flor- 
ence from  the  cypress  grove  up  yonder." 

"  No  ;  he 's  very  particular  when  he 's  on  Italian 
ground,"  said  Mrs.  Amsden,  rising.  "  You  must 
come  another  time  with  Miss  Graham,  and  bring 
Mrs.  Bowen.  It 's  quite  time  we  were  going  home." 

The  light  under  the  limbs  of  the  trees  had  begun 
to  grow  more  liquid.  The  currents  of  warm  breeze 
streaming  through  the  cooler  body  of  the  air  had 
ceased  to  ruffle  the  lakelet  round  the  fountain,  and 
the  naiads  rode  their  sea-horses  through  a  perfect 
calm.  A  damp,  pierced  with  the  fresh  odour  of  the 
water  and  of  the  springing  grass,  descended  upon 
them.  The  saunterers  through  the  different  paths 
and  alleys  were  issuing  upon  the  main  avenues,  and 
tending  in  gathering  force  toward  the  gate. 

They  found  Mrs.  Bowen's  carriage  there,  and  drove 
first  to  her  house,  beyond  which  Mrs.  Amsden  lived 
in  a  direct  line.  On  the  way  Colville  kept  up  with 
her  the  bantering  talk  that  they  always  carried  on 
together,  and  found  in  it  a  respite  from  the  formless 
future  pressing  close  upon  him.  He  sat  with  Erne 


244  t  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

on  the  front  seat,  and  he  would  not  look  at  Imogene's 
face,  which,  nevertheless,  was  present  to  some  inner 
vision.  When  the  porter  opened  the  iron  gate  below 
and  rang  Mrs.  Bowen's  bell,  and  Effie  sprang  up  the 
stairs  before  them  to  give  her  mother  the  news  of 
Mr.  Colville's  coming,  the  girl  stole  her  hand  into 
his. 

"  Shall  you— tell  her  ? " 

"  Of  course.  She  must  know  without  an  instant's 
delay." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  that  is  right.  Oh  ! —  Shall  I  go  with 
you?" 

"Yes;  come!" 


XV. 


MRS.  BOWEN  came  in  to  them,  looking  pale  and 
pain-worn,  as  she  did  that  evening  when  she  would 
not  let  Colville  go  away  with  the  other  tea-taking 
callers  to  whom  she  had  made  her  headache  an  ex- 
cuse. The  eyelids  which  she  had  always  a  little 
difficulty  in  lifting  were  heavy  with  suffering,  and 
her  pretty  smile  had  an  effect  of  very  great  remote- 
ness. But  there  was  no  consciousness  of  anything 
unusual  or  unexpected  in  his  presence  expressed  in 
her  looks  or  manner.  Colville  had  meant  to  take 
Imogene  by  the  hand  and  confront  Mrs.  Bowen  with 
an  immediate  declaration  of  what  had  happened; 
but  he  found  this  impossible,  at  least  in  the  form  of 
his  intention ;  he  took,  instead,  the  hand  of  conven- 
tional welcome  which  she  gave  him,  and  he  obeyed 
her  in  taking  provisionally  the  seat  to  which  she 
invited  him.  At  the  same  time  the  order  of  his 
words  was  dispersed  in  that  wonder,  whether  she 
suspected  anything,  with  which  he  listened  to  her 
placid  talk  about  the  weather ;  she  said  she  had 
thought  it  was  a  chilly  day  outdoors ;  but  her  head- 
aches always  made  her  very  sensitive. 

245 


246  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"Yes,"  said  Colville,  "I  supposed  it  was  cold 
myself  till  I  went  out,  for  I  woke  with  a  tinge  of 
rheumatism."  He  felt  a  strong  desire  to  excuse, 
to  justify  what  had  happened,  and  he  went  on, 
with  a  painful  sense  of  Imogene's  eyes  bent  in 
bewildered  deference  upon  him.  "  I  started  out  for 
a  walk  with  Mr.  Waters,  but  I  left  him  after  we 
got  across  the  Ponte  Vecchio ;  he  went  up  to  look 
at  the  Michelangelo  bastions,  and  I  strolled  over  to 
the  Boboli  Gardens — where  I  found  your  young 
people." 

He  had  certainly  brought  himself  to  the  point,  but 
he  seemed  actually  further  from  it  than  at  first,  and 
he  made  a  desperate  plunge,  trying  at  the  same  time 
to  keep  something  of  his  habitual  nonchalance. 
"  But  that  doesn't  account  for  my  being  here.  Imo- 
gene  accounts  for  that.  She  has  allowed  me  to 
stay  in  Florence." 

Mrs.  Bowen  could  not  turn  paler  than  her  head- 
ache had  left  her,  and  she  now  underwent  no  change 
of  complexion.  But  her  throat  was  not  clear  enough 

to  say  to  the  end,  "  Allowed  you  to  stay  in "  The 

trouble  in  her  throat  arrested  her  again. 

Colville  became  very  red.  He  put  out  his  hand 
and  took  Imogene's,  and  now  his  eyes  and  Mrs. 
Bowen's  met  in  the  kind  of  glance  in  which  people 
intercept  and  turn  each  other  aside  before  they  have 
reached  a  resting-place  in  each  other's  souls.  But 
at  the  girl's  touch  his  courage  revived — in  some 
physical  sort.  "Yes,  and  if  she  will  let  me  stay 
with  her,  we  are  not  going  to  part  again." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  247 

Mrs.  Bowen  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  in  the 
hush  Colville  heard  the  breathing  of  all  three. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  we  wished  you  to  know  at 
once,  and  I  came  in  with  Imogene  to  tell  you." 

"  What  do  you  wish  me,"  asked  Mrs.  Bowen,  "  to 
do?" 

Colville  forced  a  nervous  laugh.  "  Really,  I  'm  so 
little  used  to  this  sort  of  affair  that  I  don't  know 
whether  I  have  any  wish.  Imogene  is  here  with 
you,  and  I  suppose  I  supposed  you  would  wish  to 
do  something." 

"  I  will  do  whatever  you  think  best." 

"Thank  you  :  that's  very  kind  of  you."  He  fell 
into  a  silence,  in  which  he  was  able  only  to  wish  that 
he  knew  what  was  best,  and  from  which  he  came  to 
the  surface  with,  "  Imogene's  family  ought  to  know, 
of  course." 

"Yes;  they  put  her  in  my  charge.  They  will 
have  to  know.  Shall  I  write  to  them  ?  " 

"  Why,  if  you  will." 

"  Oh,  certainly." 

"  Thank  you." 

He  had  taken  to  stroking  with  his  right  hand  the 
hand  of  Imogene  which  he  held  in  his  left,  and  now 
he  looked  round  at  her  with  a  glance  which  it  was  a 
relief  not  to  have  her  meet.  "  And  till  we  can  hear 
from  them,  I  suppose  you  will  let  me  come  to  see 
her?" 

'    "You  know    you    have    always    been  welcome 
here." 

"  Thank  you  very  much."    It  seemed  as  if  there 


248  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

ought  to  be  something  else  to  say,  but  Colville  could 
not  think  of  anything  except :  "  We  wish  to  act  in 
every  way  with  your  approval,  Mrs.  Bowen.  And  I 
know  that  you  are  very  particular  in  some  things  " — 
the  words,  now  that  they  were  said,  struck  him  as 
unfortunate,  and  even  vulgar — "  and  I  shouldn't  wish 
to  annoy  you " 

"  Oh,  I  understand.  I  think  it  will  be — I  have  no 
doubt  you  will  know  how  to  manage  all  that.  It 
isn't  as  if  you  were  both " 

"  Young  ? "  asked  Colville.  "  No ;  one  of  us  is 
quite  old  enough  to  be  thoroughly  up  in  the  conven- 
ances. We  are  qualified,  I  'm  afraid,  as  far  as  that 
goes,"  he  added  bitterly,  "to  set  all  Florence  an 
example  of  correct  behaviour." 

He  knew  there  must  be  pain  in  the  face  which  he 
would  not  look  at ;  he  kept  looking  at  Mrs.  Bowen's 
face,  in  which  certainly  there  was  not  much  pleasure, 
either. 

There  was  another  silence,  which  became  very 
oppressive  before  it  ended  in  a  question  from  Mrs. 
Bowen,  who  stirred  slightly  in  her  chair,  and  bent 
forward  as  if  about  to  rise  in  asking  it.  "  Shall  you 
wish  to  consider  it  an  engagement  ? " 

Colville  felt  Imogene's  hand  tremble  in  his,  but 
he  received  no  definite  prompting  from  the  tremor. 
"  I  don't  believe  I  know  what  you  mean." 

"I  mean,  till  you  have  heard  from  Imogene's 
mother." 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  Perhaps  under  the 
circumstances "  The  tremor  died  out  of  the" 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  249 

hand  he  held ;  it  lay  lax  between  his.  "  "What  do 
you  say>  Imogene  ? " 

"  I  can't  say  anything.  Whatever  you  think  will 
be  right — for  me." 

"  I  wish  to  do  what  will  seem  right  and  fair  to 
your  mother." 

"Yes." 

Colville  heaved  a  hopeless  sigh.  Then  with  a 
deep  inward  humiliation,  he  said,  "Perhaps  if  you 
know  Imogene's  mother,  Mrs.  Bowen,  you  can  sug- 
gest— advise You " 

"You  must  excuse  me  ;  I  can't  suggest  or  advise 
anything.  I  must  leave  you  perfectly  free."  She 
rose  from  her  chair,  and  they  both  rose  too  from  th6 
sofa  on  which  he  had  seated  himself  at  Imogene's 
side.  "  I  shall  have  to  leave  you,  I  'm  afraid ;  my 
head  aches  still  a  little.  Imogene  ! "  She  advanced 
toward  the  girl,  who  stood  passively  letting  her  come 
the  whole  distance.  As  if  sensible  of  the  rebuff  ex- 
pressed in  this  attitude,  she  halted  a  very  little. 
Then  she  added,  "  I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy," 
and  suddenly  cast  her  arms  round  the  girl,  and  stood 
long  pressing  her  face  into  her  neck.  When  she  re- 
leased her,  Colville  trembled  lest  she  should  be  going 
to  give  him  her  hand  in  congratulation.  But  she 
only  bowed  slightly  to  him,  with  a  sidelong,  aversive 
glance,  and  walked  out  of  the  room  with  a  slow, 
rigid  pace,  like  one  that  controls  a  tendency  to  giddi- 
ness. 

Imogene  threw  herself  on  Colville's  breast.  It 
gave  him  a  shock,  as  if  he  were  letting  her  do  her- 


250  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

self  some  wrong.  But  she  gripped  him  fast,  and 
began  to  sob  and  to  cry.  "  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !  ". 

"  What  is  it  ? — what  is  it,  my  poor  girl  1 "  he  mur- 
mured. "  Are  you  unhappy  ?  Are  you  sorry  1  Let 
it  all  end,  then  ! " 

"  No,  no  ;  it  isn't  that !  But  I  am  very  unhappy 
— yes,  very,  very  unhappy !  Oh,  I  didn't  suppose  I 
should  ever  feel  so  toward  any  one.  I  hate  her !  " 

"You  hate  her  ?"  gasped  Colville. 

"Yes,  I  hate  her.  And  she — she  is  so  good  to 
me !  It  must  be  that  I  Ve  done  her  some  deadly 
wrong,  without  knowing  it,  or  I  couldn't  hate  her  as 
I  know  I  do," 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Colville  soothingly;  "that's  just 
your  fancy.  You  haven't  harmed  her,  and  you  don't 
hate  her." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  do !  You  can't  understand  how  I 
feel  toward  her." 

"But  you  can't  feel  so  toward  her  long,"  he 
urged,  dealing  as  he  might  with  what  was  wholly 
a  mystery  to  him.  She  is  so  good " 

"  It  only  makes  my  badness  worse,  and  makes  me 
hate  her  more." 

"I  don't  understand.  But  you're  excited  now. 
When  you  're  calmer  you  '11  feel  differently,  of  course. 
I  Ve  kept  you  restless  and  nervous  a  long  time,  poor 
child ;  but  now  our  peace  begins,  and  everything  will 

be  bright  and "  He  stopped  :  the  words  had  such 

a  very  hollow  sound. 

She  pushed  herself  from  him,  and  dried  her  eyes. 
"Oh  yes." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  251 

"  And,  Imogene — perhaps — perhaps Or,  no ; 

never  mind,  now.    I  must  go  away "   She  looked 

at  him.  frightened  but  submissive.  But  I  will  be 
back  to-night,  or  perhaps  to-morrow  morning.  I 
want  to  think — to  give  you  time  to  think.  I  don't 
want  to  be  selfish  about  you — I  want  to  consider 
you,  all  the  more  because  you  won't  consider  your- 
self. Good-bye."  He  stooped  over  and  kissed  her 
hair.  Even  in  this  he  felt  like  a  thief ;  he  could  not 
look  at  the  face  she  lifted  to  his. 

Mrs.  Bowen  sent  word  from  her  room  that  she  was 
not  coming  to  dinner,  and  Imogene  did  not  come  till 
the  dessert  was  put  on.  Then  she  found  Effie  Bowen 
sitting  alone  at  the  table,  and  served  in  serious  for- 
mality by  the  man,  whom  she  had  apparently  felt 
it  right  to  repress,  for  they  were  both  silent.  The 
little  girl  had  not  known  how  to  deny  herself  an  ex- 
cess of  the  less  wholesome  dishes,  and  she  was  per-** 
haps  anticipating  the  regret  which  this  indulgence 
was  to  bring,  for  she  was  very  pensive. 

"  Isn't  mamma  coming  at  all  ?  "  she  asked  plain- 
tively, when  Imogene  sat  down,  and  refused  every-  ' 
thing  but  a  cup  of  coffee.  "  Well,"  she  went  on,  "  I 
can't  make  out  what  is  coming  to  this  family.  You 
were  all  crying  last  night  because  Mr.  Colville  was 
going  away,  and  now,  when  he  's  going  to  stay,  it 's 
just  as  bad.  I  don't  think  you  make  it  very 
pleasant  for  him.  I  should  think  he  would  be 
perfectly  puzzled  by  it,  after  he 's  done  so  much  to 
please  you  all.  I  don't  believe  he  thinks  it 's  very- 
polite.  I  suppose  it  is  polite,  but  it  doesn't  seem  so. 


252  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

And  he  's  always  so  cheerful  and  nice.  I  should 
think  he  would  want  to  visit  in  some  family  where 
there  was  more  amusement.  There  used  to  be 
plenty  in  this  family,  but  now  it 's  as  dismal  1  The 
first  of  the  winter  you  and  mamma  used  to  be  so 
pleasant  when  he  came,  and  would  try  everything 
to  amuse  him,  and  would  let  me  come  in  to  get 
some  of  the  good  of  it;  but  now  you  seem  to  fly 
every  way  as  soon  as  he  comes  in  sight  of  the  house, 
and  I'm  poked  off  in  holes  and  corners  before 
he  can  open  his  lips.  And  I  've  borne  it  about  as 
long  as  I  can.  I  would  rather  be  back  in  Vevay. 
Or  anywhere."  At  this  point  her  own  pathos  over- 
whelmed her,  and  the  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks 
moistened  the  crumbs  of  pastry  at  the  corners  of  her 
pretty  mouth.  "What  was  so  strange,  I  should 
like  to  know,  about  his  staying,  that  mamma  should 
pop  up  like  a  ghost,  when  I  told  her  he  had  come 
home  with  us,  and  grab  me  by  the  wrist,  and  twitch 
me  about,  and  ask  me  all  sorts  of  questions  I 
couldn't  answer,  and  frighten  me  almost  to  death  1 
I  haven't  got  over  it  yet.  And  I  don't  think  it 's 
very  nice.  It  used  to  be  a  very  polite  family,  and 
pleasant  with  each  other,  and  always  having  some- 
thing agreeable  going  on  in  it ;  but  if  it  keeps  on 
very  much  longer  in  this  way,  I  shall  think  the 
Bowens  are  beginning  to  lose  their  good-breeding. 
I  suppose  that  if  Mr.  Colville  were  to  go  down  on 
his  knees  to  mamma  and  ask  her  to  let  him  take  me 
somewhere  now,  she  wouldn't  do  it."  She  pulled 
her  handkerchief  out  of  her  pocket,  and  dried  her 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  253 

eyes  on  a  ball  of  it.  "I  don't  see  what  you 've  been 
crying  about,  Imogene.  You've  got  nothing  to 
worry  you." 

"I'm  not  very  well,  Effie,"  returned  the  girl 
gently.  "  I  haven't  been  well  all  day." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  nobody  is  well  any  more. 
I  don't  believe  Florence  is  a  very  healthy  place. 
Or  at  least  this  house  isn't.  I  think  it  must  be  the 
drainage.  If  we  keep  on,  I  suppose  we  shall  all 
have  diphtheria.  Don't  you,  Imogene  ? " 

"  Yes,"  asserted  the  girl  distractedly. 

"The  girls  had  it  at  Vevay  frightfully.  And 
none  of  them  were  as  strong  afterward.  Some  of 
the  parents  came  and  took  them  away ;  but  Madame 
Schebres  never  let  mamma  know.  Do  you  think 
that  was  right  1 " 

"  No ;  it  was  very  wrong." 

"I  suppose  Mr.  Colville  will  have  it  if  we  do. 
That  is,  if  he  keeps  coming  here.  Is  he  coming  any 
more  ? " 

"  Yes ;  he 's  coming  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Is  he  1 "  A  smile  flickered  over  the  rueful  face. 
"  What  time  is  he  coming  1 " 

"I  don't  know  exactly,"  said  Imogene,  listlessly 
stirring  her  coffee.  "  Some  time  in  the  fore- 
noon." 

"Do  you  suppose  he's  going  to  take  us  any- 
where 1 " 

"  Yes— I  think  so.     I  can't  tell  exactly." 

"  If  he  asks  me  to  go  somewhere,  will  you  tease 
mamma?  She  always  lets  you,  Imogene,  and  it 


254  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

seems  sometimes  as  if  she  just  took  a  pleasure  in 
denying  me." 

"  You  mustn't  talk  so  of  your  mother,  Effie." 

"  No ;  I  wouldn't  to  everybody.  I  know  that  she 
means  for  the  best ;  but  I  don't  believe  she  under- 
stands how  much  I  suffer  when  she  won't  let  me  go 
with  Mr.  Colville.  Don't  you  think  he 's  about  the 
nicest  gentleman  we  know,  Imogene  1 " 

"  Yes ;  he 's  very  kind." 

"And  I  think  he's  handsome.  A  good  many 
people  would  consider  him  old-looking,  and  of  course 
he  isn't  so  young  as  Mr.  Morton  was,  or  the  Ingle- 
hart  boys ;  but  that  makes  him  all  the  easier  to  get 
along  with.  And  his  being  just  a  little  fat,  that 
way,  seems  to  suit  so  well  with  his  character."  The 
smiles  were  now  playing  across  the  child's  face,  and 
her  eyes  sparkling.  "/  think  Mr,  Colville  would 
make  a  good  Saint  Nicholas — the  kind  they  have 
going  down  chimneys  in  America.  I'm  going  to 
tell  him,  for  the  next  veglione.  It  would  be  such  a 
nice  surprise." 

"  No,  better  not  tell  him  that,"  suggested  Imogene. 

"  Do  you  think  he  wouldn't  like  it  1 " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  it  would  become  him.  How  old  do  you 
suppose  he  is,  Imogene  ?  Seventy-five  ? " 

"  What  an  idea ! "  cried  the  girl  fiercely.  "  He 's 
forty-one." 

"  I  didn't  know  they  had  those  little  jiggering 
lines  at  the  corners  of  their  eyes  so  quick.  But 
forty-one  is  pretty  old,  isn't  it  ?  Is  Mr.  Waters " 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  255 

"  Effie,"  said  her  mother's  voice  at  the  door  be- 
hind her,  "  will  you  ring  for  Giovanni,  and  tell  him 
to  bring  me  a  cup  of  coffee  in  here  1 "  She  spoke 
from  the  portikre  of  the  salotto. 

"  Yes,  mamma.     1 11  bring  it  to  you  myself." 

"Thank  you,  dear,"  Mrs.  Bowen  called  from 
within. 

The  little  girl  softly  pressed  her  hands  together. 
"  I  hope  she  11  let  me  stay  up !  I  feel  so  excited, 
and  I  hate  to  lie  and  think  so  long  before  I  get  to 
sleep.  Couldn't  you  just  hint  a  little  to  her  that  I 
might  stay  up  1  It 's  Sunday  night." 

"  I  can't,  Effie,"  said  Imogene.  "  I  oughtn't  to 
interfere  with  any  of  your  mother's  rules." 

The  child  sighed  submissively  and  took  the  coffee 
that  Giovanni  brought  to  her.  She  and  Imogene 
went  into  the  salotto  together.  Mrs.  Bowen  was  at 
her  writing-desk.  "  You  can  bring  the  coffee  here, 
Effie,"  she  said. 

"  Must  I  go  to  bed  at  once,  mamma  1 "  asked  the 
child,  setting  the  cup  carefully  down. 

The  mother  looked  distractedly  up  from  her 
writing.  "  No ;  you  may  sit  up  a  while,"  she  said, 
looking  back  to  her  writing. 

"  How  long,  mamma  1 "  pleaded  the  little  girl. 

"  Oh,  till  you  're  sleepy.     It  doesn't  matter  now" 

She  went  on  writing ;  from  time  to  time  she  tore 
up  what  she  had  written. 

Effie  softly  took  a  book  from  the  table,  and 
perching  herself  on  a  stiff,  high  chair,  bent  over  it 
and  began  to  read.  • 


256  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

• 

Imogene  sat  by  the  hearth,  where  a  small  fire  was 
pleasant  in  the  indoor  chill  of  an  Italian  house, 
even  after  so  warm  a  day  as  that  had  been.  She 
took  some  large  beads  of  the  strand  she  wore  about 
her  neck  into  her  mouth,  and  pulled  at  the  strand 
listlessly  with  her  hand  while  she  watched  the  fire. 
Her  eyes  wandered  once  to  the  child. 

"  What  made  you  take  such  an  uncomfortable 
chair,  Effie?" 

Effie  shut  her  book  over  her  hand.  "  It  keeps  me 
wakeful  longer,"  she  whispered,  with  a  glance  at  her 
mother  from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

"  I  don't  see  why  any  one  should  wish  to  be 
wakeful,"  sighed  the  girl. 

When  Mrs.  Bowen  tore  up  one  of  her  half-written 
pages  Imogene  started  nervously  forward,  and  then 
relapsed  again  into  her  chair.  At  last  Mrs.  Bowen 
seemed  to  find  the  right  phrases  throughout,  and 
she  finished  rather  a  long  letter,  and  read  it  over  to 
herself.  Then  she  said,  without  leaving  her  desk, 
"  Imogene,  I  've  been  trying  to  write  to  your 
mother.  Will  you  look  at  this  1 " 

She  held  the  sheet  over  her  shoulder,  and  Imo- 
gene came  languidly  and  took  it;  Mrs.  Bowen 
dropped  her  face  forward  on  the  desk,  into  her 
hands,  while  Imogene  was  reading. 

"  FLORENCE,  March  10,  18— 

"DEAR.  MRS.  GRAHAM, — I  have  some  very  important 
news  to  give  you  in  regard  to  Imogene,  and  as  there  is  no 
way  of  preparing  you  for  it,  I  will  tell  you  at  once  that 
ii  relates  to  her  marriage. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  257 

"  She  has  met  at  my  house  a  gentleman  whom  I  knew 
in  Florence  when  I  was  here  before,  and  of  whom  I  never 
knew  anything  but  good.  We  have  seen  him  very  often, 
and  I  have  seen  nothing  in  him  that  I  could  not  approve. 
He  is  Mr.  Theodore  Colville,  of  Prairie  des  Vaches,  Indiana, 
where  he  was  for  many  years  a  newspaper  editor  ;  but  he 
was  born  somewhere  in  New  England.  He  is  a  very  culti- 
vated, interesting  man  ;  and  though  not  exactly  a  society 
man,  he  is  very  agreeable  and  refined  in  his  manners.  I 
am  sure  his  character  is  irreproachable,  though  he  is  not  a 
member  of  any  church.  In  regard  to  his  means  I  know 
nothing  whatever,  and  can  only  infer  from  his  way  of  life 
that  he  is  in  easy  circumstances. 

"  The  whole  matter  has  been  a  surprise  to  me,  for  Mr. 
Colville  is  some  twenty-one  or  two  years  older  than  Imo- 
gene,  who  is  very  young  in  her  feelings  for  a  girl  of  her 
age.  If  I  could  have  realised  anything  like  a  serious 
attachment  between  them  sooner,  I  would  have  written 
before.  Even  now  I  do  not  know  whether  I  am  to  consider 
them  engaged  or  not.  No  doubt  Imogene  will  write  you 
more  fully. 

"  Of  course  I  would  rather  not  have  had  anything  of  the 
kind  happen  while  Imogene  was  under  my  charge,  though 
I  am  sure  that  you  will  not  think  I  have  been  careless  or 
imprudent  about  her.  I  interfered  as  far  as  I  could,  at  the 
first  moment  I  could,  but  it  appears  that  it  was  then  too 
late  to  prevent  what  has  followed. — Yours  sincerely, 

"  EVALINA  BOWEN." 

Imogene  read  the  letter  twice  over,  and  then  she 
said,  "Why  isn't  he  a  society  man  ? " 

Probably  Mrs.  Bowen  expected  this  sort  of  ap- 
proach. "  I  don't  think  a  society  man  would  have 
undertaken  to  dance  the  Lancers  as  he  did  at  Madam 
R 


258  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Uccelli's,"  she  answered  patiently,  without  lifting 
her  head. 

Imogene  winced,  but  "  I  should  despise  him  if  he 
were  merely  a  society  man,"  she  said.  "  I  have  seen 
enough  of  them.  I  think  it 's  better  to  be  intel- 
lectual and  good." 

.Mrs.  Bowen  made  no  reply,  and  the  girl  went  on. 
"And  as  to  his  being  older,  I  don't  see  what  dif- 
ference it  makes.  If  people  are  in  sympathy,  then 
they  are  of  the  same  age,  no  difference  how  much 
older  than  one  the  other  is.  I  have  always  heard 
that."  She  urged  this  as  if  it  were  a  question. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen. 

"And  how  should  his  having  been  a  newspaper 
editor  be  anything  against  him  3 " 

Mrs.  Bowen  lifted  her  face  and  stared  at  the  girl 
in  astonishment.  "  Who  said  it  was  against  him  ? " 

"  You  hint  as  much.  The  whole  letter  is  against 
him." 

"  Imogene ! " 

"Yes!  Every  word!  You  make  him  out  per- 
fectly detestable.  I  don't  know  why  you  should 
hate  him.  He  's  done  everything  he  could  to  satisfy 
you." 

Mrs.  Bowen  rose  from  her  desk,  putting  her  hand 
to  her  forehead,  as  if  to  soften  a  shock  of  headache 
that  her  change  of  posture  had  sent  there.  "  I  will 
leave  the  letter  with  you,  and  you  can  send  it  or  not 
as  you  think  best.  It's  merely  a  formality,  my 
writing  to  your  mother.  Perhaps  you  '11  see  it  dif- 
ferently in  the  morning.  Erne  !  "  she  called  to  the 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  259 

child,  who  with  her  book  shut  upon  her  hand  had 
been  staring  at  them  and  listening  intently.  "  It 's 
time  to  go  to  bed  now." 

When  Effie  stood  before  the  glass  in  her  mother's 
room,  and  Mrs.  Bowen  was  braiding  her  hair  and 
tying  it  up  for  the  night,  she  asked  ruefully, 
"  What 's  the  matter  with  Imogene,  mamma  ? " 

"She  isn't  very  happy  to-night." 

"  You  don't  seem  very  happy  either,"  said  the  child, 
watching  her  own  face  as  it  quivered  in  the  mirror. 
"I  should  think  that  now  Mr.  Colville 's  concluded 
to  stay,  we  would  all  be  happy  again.  But  we  don't 
seem  to.  We  're — we  're  perfectly  demoralised  ! " 
It  was  one  of  the  words  she  had  picked  up  from 
Colville. 

The  quivering  face  in  the  glass  broke  in  a  passion 
of  tears,  and  Effie  sobbed  herself  to  sleep. 

Imogene  sat  down  at  Mrs.  Bo  wen's  desk,  and  push- 
ing her  letter  away,  began  to  write. 

"  FLORENCE,  March  10,  18 — . 

"DEAR  MOTHER, —  I  inclose  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Bowen 
which  will  tell  you  better  than  I  can  what  I  wish  to  tell. 
I  do  not  see  how  I  can  add  anything  that  would  give  you 
more  of  an  idea  of  him,  or  less,  either.  No  person  can  be 
put  down  in  cold  black  and  white,  and  not  seem  like  a 
mere  inventory.  I  do  not  suppose  you  expected  me  to  be- 
come engaged  when  you  sent  me  out  to  Florence,  and,  as 
Mrs.  Bowen  says,  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  engaged  or 
not.  I  will  leave  it  entirely  to  Mr.  Colville  ;  if  he  says  we 
are  engaged,  we  are.  I  am  sure  he  will  do  what  is  best. 
I  only  know  that  he  was  going  away  from  Florence  because 


260  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

he  thought  I  supposed  he  was  not  in  earnest,  and  I  asked 
him  to  stay. 

"  I  am  a  good  deal  excited  to-night,  and  cannot  write 
very  clearly.  But  I  will  write  soon  again,  and  more  at 
length. 

"  Perhaps  something  will  be  decided  by  that  time. 
With  much  love  to  father, 

"  Your  affectionate  daughter, 

"  IMOGENE." 

She  put  this  letter  into  an  envelope  with  Mrs. 
Bowen's,  and  leaving  it  unsealed  to  show  her  in  the 
morning,  she  began  to  write  again.  This  time  she 
wrote  to  a  girl  with  whom  she  had  been  on  terms  so 
intimate  that  when  they  left  school  they  had  agreed 
to  know  each  other  by  names  expressive  of  their 
extremely  confidential  friendship,  and  to  address 
each  other  respectively  as  Diary  and  Journal  They 
were  going  to  write  every  day,  if  only  a  line  or 
two  ;  and  at  the  end  of  a  year  they  were  to  meet  and 
read  over  together  the  records  of  their  lives  as  set 
down  in  these  letters.  They  had  never  met  since, 
though  it  was  now  three  years  since  they  parted,  and 
they  had  not  written  since  Imogene  came  abroad; 
that  is,  Imogene  had  not  answered  the  only  letter 
she  had  received  from  her  friend  in  Florence.  This 
friend  was  a  very  serious  girl,  and  had  wished  to  be 
a  minister,  but  her  family  would  not  consent,  or 
even  accept  the  compromise  of  studying  medicine, 
which  she  proposed,  and  she  was  still  living  at 
home  in  a  small  city  of  central  New  York.  Imo- 
gene now  addressed  her — 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  261 

"DEAR  DIARY,— You  cannot  think  how  far  away  the 
events  of  this  day  have  pushed  the  feelings  and  ideas  of 
the  time  when  I  agreed  to  write  to  you  under  this  name. 
Till  now  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  had  not  changed  in  the 
least  thing  since  we  parted,  and  now  I  can  hardly  know 
myself  for  the  same  person.  0  dear  Di !  something  very 
wonderful  has  come  into  my  life,  and  I  feel  that  it  rests 
with  me  to  make  it  the  greatest  blessing  to  myself  and 
others,  or  the  greatest  misery.  If  I  prove  unworthy  of  it 
or  unequal  to  it,  then  I  am  sure  that  nothing  but  wretched- 
ness will  come  of  it. 

"  I  am  engaged — yes  ! — and  to  a  man  more  than  twice 
my  own  age.  It  is  so  easy  to  tell  you  this,  for  I  know  that 
your  large-mindedness  will  receive  it  very  differently  from 
most  people,  and  that  you  will  see  it  as  I  do.  He  is  the 
noblest  of  men,  though  he  tries  to  conceal  it  under  the 
light,  ironical  manner  with  which  he  has  been  faithful  to  a 
cruel  disappointment.  It  was  here  in  Florence,  twenty 
years  ago,  that  a  girl— I  am  ashamed  to  call  her  a  girl — 
trifled  with  the  priceless  treasure  that  has  fallen  to  me,  and 
flung  it  away.  You,  Di,  will  understand  how  I  was  first 
fascinated  with  the  idea  of  trying  to  atone  to  him  here  for 
all  the  wrong  he  had  suffered.  At  first  it  was  only  the 
vaguest  suggestion— something  like  what  I  had  read  in  a 
poem  or  a  novel — that  had  nothing  to  do  with  me  person- 
ally, but  it  grew  upon  me  more  and  more  the  more  I  saw 
of  him,  and  felt  the  witchery  of  his  light,  indifferent 
manner,  which  I  learned  to  see  was  tense  with  the  anguish 
he  had  suffered.  She  had  killed  his  youth  ;  she  had  spoiled 
his  life  :  if  I  could  revive  them,  restore  them  !  It  came 
upon  me  like  a  great  flash  of  light  at  last,  and  as  soon  as 
this  thought  took  possession  of  me,  I  felt  my  whole  being 
elevated  and  purified  by  it,  and  I  was  enabled  to  put  aside 
with  contempt  the  selfish  considerations  that  had  occurred 
to  me  at  first.  At  first  the  difference  between  our  ages  was 


262  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

very  shocking  to  me  ;  for  I  had  always  imagined  it  would 
be  some  one  young  ;  but  when  this  light  broke  upon  me,  I 
saw  that  lie  was  young,  younger  even  than  I,  as  a  man  is  at 
the  same  age  with  a  girl.  Sometimes  with  my  experiences, 
the  fancies  and  flirtations  that  every  one  has  and  must 
have,  however  one  despises  them,  I  felt  so  old  beside  him ; 
for  he  had  been  true  to  one  love  all  his  life,  and  he  had  not 
wavered  for  a  moment.  If  I  could  make  him  forget  it,  if  I 
could  lift  every  feather's  weight  of  sorrow  from  his  breast, 
if  I  could  help  him  to  complete  the  destiny,  grand  and 
beautiful  as  it  would  have  been,  which  another  had 
arrested,  broken  off — don't  you  see,  Di  dear,  how  rich  my 
reward  would  be  ? 

"  And  he,  how  forbearing,  how  considerate,  how  anxious 
for  me,  how  full  of  generous  warning  he  has  been  !  always 
putting  me  in  mind,  at  every  step,  of  the  difference  in  years 
between  us  ;  never  thinking  of  himself,  and  shrinking  so 
much  from  even  seeming  to  control  me  or  sway  me,  that  I 
don't  know  really  whether  I  have  not  made  all  the 
advances ! 

"  I  cannot  write  his  name  yet,  and  you  must  not  ask  it 
till  I  can  ;  and  I  cannot  tell  you  anything  about  his  looks 
or  his  life  without  seeming  to  degrade  him,  somehow,  and 
make  him  a  common  man  like  others. 

"  How  can  I  make  myself  his  companion  in  everything? 
How  can  I  convince  him  that  there  is  no  sacrifice  for  me, 
and  that  he  alone  is  giving  up  ?  These  are  the  thoughts 
that  keep  whirling  through  my  mind.  I  hope  I  shall  be 
helped,  and  I  hope  that  I  shall  be  tried,  for  that  is  the 
only  way  for  me  to  be  helped.  I  feel  strong  enough  for 
anything  that  people  can  say.  I  should  welcome  criticism 
•and  opposition  from  any  quarter.  But  I  can  see  that  he  is 
very  sensitive — it  comes  from  his  keen  sense  of  the  ridicu- 
lous— and  if  I  suffer,  it  will  be  on  account  of  this  grand 
unselfish  nature,  and  I  shall  be  glad  of  that. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  263 

*'  I  know  you  will  understand  me,  Di,  and  I  am  not 
afraid  of  your  laughing  at  these  ravings.  But  if  you  did  I 
should  not  care.  It  is  such  a  comfort  to  say  tffese  things 
about  him,  to  exalt  him,  and  get  him  in  the  true  light  at 
last. 

"  Your  faithful  JOURNAL. 

"  I  shall  tell  him  about  you,  one  of  the  first  things,  and 
perhaps  he  can  suggest  some  way  out  of  your  trouble,  he 
has  had  so  much  experience  of  every  kind.  You  will 
worship  him,  as  I  do,  when  you  see  him  ;  for  you  will  feel 
at  once  that  he  understands  you,  and  that  is  such  a  rest. 

"  J.» 

Before  Imogene  fell  asleep,  Mrs.  Bowen  came  to 
her  in  the  dark,  and  softly  closed  the  door  that 
opened  from  the  girl's  room  into  Effie's.  She  sat 
down  on  the  bed,  and  began  to  speak  at  once,  as  if 
she  knew  Imogene  must  be  awake.  "  I  thought 
you  would  come  to  me,  Imogene ;  but  as  you  didn't, 
I  have  come  to  you,  for  if  you  can  go  to  sleep  with 
hard  thoughts  of  me  to-night,  I  can't  let  you.  You 
need  me  for  your  friend,  and  I  wish  to  be  your  friend ; 
it  would  be  wicked  in  me  to  be  anything  else ;  I 
would  give  the  world  if  your  mother  were  here ;  but 
I  tried  to  make  my  letter  to  her  everything  that  it 
should  be.  If  you  don't  think  it  is,  I  will  write  it 
ove'r  in  the  morning." 

"  No,"  said  the  girl  coldly ;  "  it  will  do  very  well. 
I  don't  wish  to  trouble  you  so  much." 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  speak  so  to  me  ?  Do  you  think 
that  I  blame  Mr.  Colville  ?  Is  that  it  ?  I  don't  ask 
you — I  shall  never  ask  you — how  he  came  to  remain, 


264  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

but  I  know  that  he  has  acted  truthfully  and  deli- 
cately. I  knew  him  long  before  yon  did,  and  no 
one  need  take  his  part  with  me."  This  was  not  per- 
haps what  Mrs.  Bowen  meant  to  say  when  she  began. 
"  I  have  told  you  all  along  what  I  thought,  but  if 
you  imagine  that  I  am  not  satisfied  with  Mr.  Col- 
ville,  you  are  very  much  mistaken.  I  can't  burst 
out  into  praises  of  him  to  your  mother  :  that  would 
be  very  patronising  and  very  bad  taste.  Can't  you 
see  that  it  would  ? " 

"Oh  yes." 

Mrs.  Bowen  lingered,  as  if  she  expected  Imogene 
to  say  something  more,  but  she  did  not,  and  Mrs. 
Bowen  rose.  "Then  I  hope  we  understand  each 
other,"  she  said,  and  went  out  of  the  room. 


XVL 

WHEN  Colville  came  in  the  morning,  Mrs.  Bowen 
received  him.  They  shook  hands,  and  their  eyes 
met  in  the  intercepting  glance  of  the  night  before. 

"Imogene  will  be  here  in  a  moment,"  she  said, 
with  a  naturalness  that  made  him  awkward  and 
conscious. 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  haste,"  he  answered  uncouthly. 
"That  is,  I  am  very  glad  of  the  chance  to  speak  a 
moment  with  you,  and  to  ask  your — to  profit  by 
what  you  think  best.  I  know  you  are  not  very  well 
pleased  with  me,  and  I  don't  know  that  I  can  ever 
put  myself  in  a  better  light  with  you — the  true  light 
It  seems  that  there  are  some  things  we  must  not  do 
even  for  the  truth's  sake.  But  that 's  neither  here 
nor  there.  What  I  am  most  anxious  for  is  not  to 
take  a  shadow  of  advantage  of  this  child's — of  Imo- 
gene's  inexperience,  and  her  remoteness  from  her 
family.  I  feel  that  I  must  in  some  sort  protect  her 
from  herself.  Yes — that  is  my  idea.  But  I  have  to 
do  this  in  so  many  ways  that  I  hardly  know  how  to 
begin.  I  should  be  very  willing,  if  you  thought  best, 
to  go  away  and  stay  away  till  she  has  heard  from  her 

265 


266  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

people,  and  let  her  have  that  time  to  think  it  all  over 
again.  She  is  very  young — so  much  younger  than 
I !  Or,  if  you  thought  it  better,  I  would  stay,  and 
let  her  remain  free  while  I  held  myself  bound  to  any 
decision  of  hers.  I  am  anxious  to  do  what  is  right. 
At  the  same  time" — he  smiled  ruefully — "there  is 
such  a  thing  as  being  so  disinterested  that  one  may 
seem  ^interested.  I  may  leave  her  so  very  free  that 
she  may  begin  to  suspect  that  I  want  a  little  free- 
dom myself.  What -shall  I  do  ?  I  wish  to  act  with 
your  approval." 

Mrs.  Bowen  had  listened  with  acquiescence  and 
intelligence  that  might  well  have  looked  like  sym- 
pathy, as  she  sat  fingering  the  top  of  her  hand-screen, 
with  her  eyelids  fallen.  She  lifted  them  to  say,  "  I 
have  told  you  that  I  will  not  advise  you  in  any  way. 
I  cannot.  I  have  no  longer  any  wish  in  this  matter. 
I  must  still  remain  in  the  place  of  Imogene's  mother ; 
but  I  will  do  only  what  you  wish.  Please  understand 
that,  and  don't  ask  me  for  advice  any  more.  It  is 
painful."  She  drew  her  lower  lip  in  a  little,  and 
let  the  screen  fall  into  her  lap. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Bowen,  to  do  anything — say 
anything — that  is  painful  to  you,"  Colville  began. 
"  You  know  that  I  would  give  the  world  to  please 
you "  The  words  escaped  him  and  left  him  star- 
ing at  her. 

"  What  are  you  saying  to  me,  Theodore  Colville  3 " 
she  exclaimed,  flashing  a  full-eyed  glance  upon  him, 
and  then  breaking  into  a  laugh,  as  unnatural  for  her. 
"  Really,  I  don't  believe  you  know  ! " 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  267 

"  Heaven  knows  I  meant  nothing  but  what  I  said/' 
he  answered,  struggling  stupidly  with  a  confusion  of 
desires  which  every  man  but  no  woman  will  under- 
stand. After  eighteen  hundred  years,  the  man  is 
still  imperfectly  monogamous.  "  Is  there  anything 
wrong  in  it  1" 

11  Oh  no  !     Not  for  you,"  she  said  scornfully. 

"  I  am  very  much  in  earnest,"  -he  went  on  hope- 
lessly, "  in  asking  your  opinion,  your  help,  in  regard 
to  how  I  shall  treat  this  affair." 

"  And  I  am  still  more  in  earnest  in  telling  you 
that  I  will  give  you  no  opinion,  no  help.  I  forbid 
you  to  recur  to  the  subject."  He  was  silent,  unable 
to  drop  his  eyes  from  hers.  "But  for  her,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Bowen,  "  I  will  do  anything  in  my 
power.  If  she  asks  my  advice  I  will  give  it,  and  I 
will  give  her  all  the  help  I  can." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Colville  vaguely. 

"  I  will  not  have  your  thanks,"  promptly  retorted 
Mrs.  Bowen,  "  for  I  mean  you  no  kindness.  I  am 
trying  to  do  my  duty  to  Imogene,  and  when  that  is 
ended,  all  is  ended.  There  is  no  way  now  for  you 
to  please  me— as  you  call  it — except  to  keep  her 
from  regretting  what  she  has  done." 

"Do  you  think  I  shall  fail  in  that?"  he  de- 
manded indignantly. 

"  I  can  offer  you  no  opinion.  I  can't  tell  what 
you  will  do." 

"There  are  two  ways  of  keeping  her  from  re- 
gretting what  she  has  done ;  and  perhaps  the 
simplest  and  best  way  would  be  to  free  her  from 


268  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

the  consequences,  as  far  as  they  're  involved  in  me," 
said  Colville. 

Mrs.  Bowen  dropped  herself  back  in  her  arm- 
chair. "  If  you  choose  to  force  these  things  upon 
me,  I  am  a  woman,  and  can't  help  myself.  Espe- 
cially, I  can't  help  myself  against  a  guest." 

"  Oh,  I  will  relieve  you  of  my  presence,"  said 
Colville.  "  I  've  no  wish  to  force  anything  upon  you 
— least  of  all  myself."  He  rose,  and  moved  toward 
the  door. 

She  hastily  intercepted  him.  "Do  you  think  I 
will  let  you  go  without  seeing  Imogene  ?  Do  you 
understand  me  so  little  as  that  ?  It 's  too  late  for 
you  to  go  !  You  know  what  I  think  of  all  this,  and 
I  know,  better  than. you,  what  you  think.  I  shall 
play  my  part,  and  you  shall  play  yours.  I  have  re- 
fused to  give  you  advice  or  help,  and  I  never  shall 
do  it.  But  I  know  what  my  duty  to  her  is,  and  I 
will  fulfil  it.  No  matter  how  distasteful  it  is  to 
either  of  us,  you  must  come  here  as  before.  The 
house  is  as  free  to  you  as  ever — freer.  And  we  are 
to  be  as  good  friends  as  ever — better.  You  can  see 
Imogene  alone  or  in  my  presence,  and,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  you  shall  consider  yourself  engaged  or 
not,  as  you  choose.  Do  you  understand  1 " 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  said  Colville,  in  the  ghost  of 
his  old  bantering  manner.  "  But  don't  explain,  or 
I  shall  make  still  less  of  it." 

"  I  mean  simply  that  I  do  it  for  Imogene  and  not 
for  you." 

"  Oh,  I  understand  that  you  don't  do  it  for  me. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  269 

At  this  moment  Imogene  appeared  between  the 
folds  of  the  portiere,  and  her  timid,  embarrassed 
glance  from  Mrs.  Bowen  to  Colville  was  the  first 
gleam  of  consolation  that  had  visited  him  since  he 
parted  with  her  the  night  before.  A  thrill  of  inex- 
plicable pride  and  fondness  passed  through  his  heart, 
and  even  the  compunction  that  followed  could  not 
spoil  its  sweetness.  But  if  Mrs.  Bowen  discreetly 
turned  her  head  aside  that  she  need  not  witness  a 
tender  greeting  between  them,  the  precaution  was 
unnecessary.  He  merely  went  forward  and  took  the 
girl's  hand,  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  Good  morning, 
Imogene,"  he  said,  with  a  kind  of  compassionate  ad- 
miration. 

"  Good  morning,"  she  returned  half-inquiringly. 

She  did  not  take  a  seat  near  him,  and  turned,  as 
if  for  instruction,  to  Mrs.  Bowen.  It  was  probably 
the  force  of  habit.  In  any  case,  Mrs.  Bowen's  eyes 
gave  no  response.  She  bowed  slightly  to  Colville, 
and  began,  "  I  must  leave  Imogene  to  entertain  you 
for  the  present,  Mr. " 

"  No  !  "  cried  the  girl  impetuously ;  "  don't  go." 
Mrs.  Bowen  stopped.  "  I  wish  to  speak  with  you — 
with  you  and  Mr.  Colville  together.  I  wish  to  say 
— I  don't  know  how  to  say  it  exactly  ;  but  I  wish  to 

know You  asked  him  last  night,  Mrs.  Bowen, 

whether  he  wished  to  consider  it  an  engagement  ? " 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  rather  hear  from 
your  mother " 

"  Yes,  I  would  be  glad  to  know  that  my  mother 
approved  ;  but  if  she  didn't,  I  couldn't  help  it.  Mr. 


270  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Colville  said  he  was  bound,  but  I  was  not.  That 
can't  be.  I  ivish  to  be  bound,  if  he  is." 

"  I  don't  quite  know  what  you  expect  me  to  say." 

"  Nothing,"  said  Imogene.  "  I  merely  wished  you 
to  know.  And  I  don't  wish  you  to  sacrifice  anything 
to  us.  If  you  think  best,  Mr.  Colville  will  not  see 
me  till  I  hear  from  home  ;  though  it  won't  make 
any  difference  with  me  what  I  hear." 

"  There 's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  meet,"  said 
Mrs.  Bowen  absently. 

"  If  you  wish  it  to  have  the  same  appearance  as 
an  Italian  engagement " 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  putting  her  hand  to  her 
head  with  a  gesture  she  had  ;  "  that  would  be  quite 
unnecessary.  It  would  be  ridiculous  under  the 
circumstances.  I  have  thought  of  it,  and  I  have 
decided  that  the  American  way  is  the  best." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Imogene,  with  the  air  of 
summing  up ;  "  then  the  only  question  is  whether 
we  shall  make  it  known  or  not  to  other  people." 

This  point  seemed  to  give  Mrs.  Bowen  greater 
pause  than  any.  She  was  a  long  time  silent,  and 
Colville  saw  that  Imogene  was  beginning  to  chafe  at 
her  indecision.  Yet  he  did  not  see  the  moment  to 
intervene  in  a  debate  in  which  he  found  himself 
somewhat  ludicrously  ignored,  as  if  the  affair  were 
solely  the  concern  of  these  two  women,  and  none  of 
his. 

"  Of  course,  Mrs.  Bowen,"  said  the  girl  haughtily, 
"if  it  will  be  disagreeable  to  you  to  have  it 
known " 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  271 

Mrs.  Bowen  blushed  delicately — a  blush  of  pro- 
test and  of  generous  surprise,  or  so  it  seemed  to 
Colville.  "  I  was  not  thinking  of  myself,  Imogens. 
I  only  wish  to  consider  you.  And  I  was  thinking 
whether,  at  this  distance  from  home,  you  wouldn't 
prefer  to  have  your  family's  approval  before  you 
made  it  known." 

"  I  am  sure  of  their  approval.  Father  will  do 
what  mother  says,  and  she  has  always  said  that  she 
would  never  interfere  with  me  in — in — such  a 
thing." 

"Perhaps  you  would  like  all  the  more,  then,  to 
show  her  the  deference  of  waiting  for  her  consent." 

Imogene  started  as  if  stopped  short  in  swift 
career ;  it  was  not  hard  for  Colville  to  perceive  that 
she  saw  for  the  first  time  the  reverse  side  of  a 
magnanimous  impulse.  She  suddenly  turned  to 
him. 

"  I  think  Mrs.  Bowen  is  right,"  he  said  gravely, 
in  answer  to  the  eyes  of  Imogene.  He  continued, 
with  a  flicker  of  his  wonted  mood  :  "You  must  con- 
sider me  a  little  in  the  matter.  I  have  some  small 
shreds  of  self-respect  about  me  somewhere,  and  I 
would  rather  not  be  put  in  the  attitude  of  defying 
your  family,  or  ignoring  them." 

"  No,"  said  Imogene,  in  the  same  effect  of  arrest. 

"  When  it  isn't  absolutely  necessary,"  continued 
Colville.  "Especially  as  you  say  there  will  be  no 
opposition." 

"  Of  course,"  Imogene  assented  ;  and  in  fact  what 
he  said  was  very  just,  and  he  knew  it ;  but  he  could 


272  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

perceive  that  he  had  suffered  loss  with  her.  A 
furtive  glance  at  Mrs.  Bowen  did  not  assure  him 
that  he  had  made  a  compensating  gain  in  that  direc- 
tion, where,  indeed,  he  had  no  right  to  wish  for  any. 

"  Well,  then,"  the  girl  went  on,  "  it  shall  be  so. 
We  will  wait.  It  will  only  be  waiting.  I  ought  to 
have  thought  of  you  before  ;  I  make  a  bad  begin- 
ning," she  said  tremulously.  "I  supposed  I  was 
thinking  of  you ;  but  I  see  that  I  was  only  thinking 
of  myself."  The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  Mrs. 
Bowen,  quite  overlooked  in  this  apology,  slipped 
from  the  room. 

"  Imogene  ! "  said  Colville,  coming  toward  her. 

She  dropped  herself  upon  his  shoulder.  "Oh, 
why,  why,  why  am  I  so  miserable  1 " 

"Miserable,  Imogene  !"  he  murmured,  stroking 
her  beautiful  hair. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  Utterly  miserable  !  It  must  be  be- 
cause I  'm  unworthy  of  you — unequal  every  way.  If 
you  think  so,  cast  me  off  at  once.  Don't  be  weakly 
merciful  ! " 

The  words  pierced  his  heart.  "  I  would  give  the 
world  to  make  you  happy,  my  child  ! "  he  said,  with 
perfidious  truth,  and  a  sigh  that  came  from  the 
bottom  of  his  soul.  "  Sit  down  here  by  me,"  he 
said,  moving  to  the  sofa  ;  and  with  whatever  obscure 
sense  of  duty  to  her  innocent  seli-abandon,  he  made 
a  space  between  them,  and  reduced  her  embrace  to 
a  clasp  of  the  hand  she  left  with  him.  "  Now  tell 
me,"  he  said,  "  what  is  it  makes  you  unhappy  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  drying  her 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  273 

averted  eyes.  "  I  suppose  I  am  overwrought  from 
not  sleeping,  and  from  thinking  how  we  should 
arrange  it  all." 

"And  now  that  it's  all  arranged,  can't  you  be 
cheerful  again  1 " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  're  satisfied  with  the  way  we  Ve  arranged 
it  1  Because  if " 

"Oh,  perfectly— perfectly  !"  She  hastily  inter- 
rupted. "  I  wouldn't  have  it  otherwise.  Of  course," 
she  added,  "  it  wasn't  very  pleasant  having  some 
one  else  suggest  what  I  ought  to  have  thought  of 
myself,  and  seem  more  delicate  about  you  than  I 
was. " 

"  Some  one  else  ? " 

"You  know!     Mrs.  Bo  wen." 

"Oh!  "  But  I  couldn't  see  that  she  was  anxious 
to  spare  me.  It  occurred  to  me  that  she  was  con- 
cerned about  your  family." 

"  It  led  up  to  the  other  !  it 's  all  the  same  thing." 

"Well,  even  in  that  case,  I  don't  see  why  you 
should  mind  it.  It  was  certainly  very  friendly  of 
her,  and  I  know  that  she  has  your  interest  at  heart 
entirely." 

",Yes ;  she  knows  how  to  make  it  seem  so." 

Colville  hesitated  in  bewilderment.  "  Imogene  ! " 
he  cried  at  last,  "I  don't  understand  this.  Don't 
you  think  Mrs.  Bowen  likes  you  1 " 

"  She  detests  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no  !  That 's  too  cruel  an  error. 
You  mustn't  think  that.  I  can't  let  you.  It's 
s 


274  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

morbid.  I'm  sure  that  she's  devotedly  kind  and 
good  to  you." 

"  Being  kind  and  good  isn't  liking.  I  know  what 
she  thinks.  But  of  course  I  can't  expect  to  convince 
you  of  it ;  no  one  else  could  see  it." 

"  No ! "  said  Colville,  with  generous  fervour. 
"  Because  it  doesn't  exist  and  you  mustn't  imagine  it. 
You  are  as  sincerely  and  unselfishly  regarded  in  this 
house  as  you  could  be  in  your  own  home.  I  'm  sure 
of  that.  I  know  Mrs.  Bowen.  She  has  her  little 
worldlinesses  and  unrealities  of  manner,  but  she  is 
truth  and  loyalty  itself.  She  would  rather  die  than 
be  false,  or  even  unfair.  I  knew  her  long  ago " 

"Yes,"  cried  the  girl,  "long  before  you  knew  me!" 

"  And  I  know  her  to  be  the  soul  of  honour,"  said 
Colville,  ignoring  the  childish  outburst.  "  Honour 
— like  a  man's,"  he  added.  "  And,  Imogene,  I  want 
you  to  promise  me  that  you  '11  not  think  of  her  any 
more  in  that  way.  I  want  you  to  think  of  her  as 
faithful  and  loving  to  you,  for  she  is  so.  Will  you 
do  it  ?  " 

Imogene  did  not  answer  him  at  once.  Then  she 
turned  upon  him  a  face  of  radiant  self-abnegation. 
"I  will  do  anything  you  tell  me.  Only  tell  me 
things  to  do." 

The  next  time  he  came  he  again  saw  Mrs.  Bowen 
alone  before  Imogene  appeared.  The  conversation 
was  confined  to  two  sentences. 

"Mr.  Colville,"  she  said,  with  perfectly  tranquil 
point,  while  she  tilted  a  shut  book  to  and  fro  on  her 
knee,  '  I  will  thank  you  not  to  defend  me." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  275 

Had  she  overheard  1  Had  Imogene  told  her  1 
He  answered,  in  a  fury  of  resentment  for  her  in- 
gratitude that  stupefied  him.  "  I  will  never  speak 
of  you  again." 

Now  they  were  enemies  ;  he  did  not  know  how  or 
why,  but  he  said  to  himself,  in  the  bitterness  of  his 
heart,  that  it  was  better  so ;  and  when  Imogene  ap- 
peared, and  Mrs.  Bowen  vanished,  as  she  did  with- 
out another  word  to  him,  he  folded  the  girl  in  a 
vindictive  embrace. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  she  asked,  pushing  away 
from  him. 

"With  me  r 

"Yes  ;  you  seem  so  excited." 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  he  said,  shrinking  from  the  sharp- 
ness of  that  scrutiny  in  a  woman's  eyes,  which,  when 
it  begins  the  perusal  of  a  man's  soul,  astonishes  and 
intimidates  him ;  he  never  perhaps  becomes  able  to 
endure  it  with  perfect  self-control.  "I  suppose  a 
slight  degree  of  excitement  in  meeting  you  may  be 
forgiven  me."  He  smiled  under  the  unrelaxed 
severity  of  her  gaze. 

"  Was  Mrs.  Bowen  saying  anything  about  me  ? " 

"Not  a  word,"  said  Colville,  glad  of  getting  back 
to  the  firm  truth  again,  even  if  it  were  mere  liter- 
ality. 

"We  have  made  it  up,"  she  said,  her  scrutiny 
changing  to  a  lovely  appeal  for  his  approval. 
"  What  there  was  to  make  up." 

"  Yes  ? " 

"  I  told  her  what  you  had  said.     And  now  it 's  all 


276  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

right  between  us,  and  you  mustn't  be  troubled  at  that 
any  more.  I  did  it  to  please  you." 

She  seemed  to  ask  him  with  the  last  words  whether 
she  really  had  pleased  him,  as  if  something  in  his 
aspect  suggested  a  doubt ;  and  he  hastened  to  re- 
assure her.  "  That  was  very  good  of  yon.  I  appre- 
ciate it  highly.  It 's  extremely  gratifying." 

She  broke  into  a  laugh  of  fond  derision.  "  I  don't 
believe  you  really  cared  about  it,  or  else  you  're  not 
thinking  about  it  now.  Sit  down  here ;  I  want  to 
tell  you  of  something  I  've  thought  out."  She  pulled 
him  to  the  sofa,  and  put  his  arm  about  her  waist, 
with  a  simple  fearlessness  and  matter-of-course 
promptness  that  made  him  shudder.  He  felt  that 
he  ought  to  tell  her  not  to  do  it,  but  he  did  not 
quite  know  how  without  wounding  her.  She  took 
hold  of  his  hand  and  drew  his  lax  arm  taut.  Then 
she  looked  up  into  his  eyes,  as  if  some  sense  of  his 
misgiving  had  conveyed  itself  to  her,  but  she  did 
not  release  her  hold  of  his  hand. 

"  Perhaps  we  oughtn't,  if  we  Ve  not  engaged  ?  " 
she  suggested,  with  such  utter  trust  in  him  as  made 
his  heart  quake. 

"  Oh,"  he  sighed,  from  a  complexity  of  feeling 
that  no  explanation  could  wholly  declare,  "we're 
engaged  enough  for  that,  I  suppose." 

"I  'm  glad  you  think  so," she  answered  innocently. 
"  I  knew  you  wouldn't  let  me  if  it  were  not  right." 
Saving  settled  the  question,  "  Of  course,"  she  con- 
tinued, "  we  shall  all  do  our  best  to  keep  our  secret ; 
but  in  spite  of  everything  it  may  get  out.  Do  you 
see?" 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  277 

"Well?" 

"Well,  of  course  it  will  make  a  great  deal  of 
remark." 

"  Oh  yes ;  you  must  be  prepared  for  that,  Imo- 
gene,"  said  Colville,  with  as  much  gravity  as  he 
could  make  comport  with  his  actual  position. 

"  I  am  prepared  for  it,  and  prepared  to  despise  it," 
answered  the  girl.  "  I  shall  have  no  trouble  except 
the  fear  that  you  will  mind  it."  She  pressed  his 
hand  as  if  she  expected  him  to  say  something  to 
this. 

"  I  shall  never  care  for  it,"  he  said,  and  this  was 
true  enough.  "  My  only  care  will  be  to  keep  you 
from  regretting.  I  have  tried  from  the  first  to 
make  you  see  that  I  was  very  much  older  than  you. 
It  would  be  miserable  enough  if  you  came  to  see  it 
too  late." 

"  I  have  never  seen  it,  and  I  never  shall  see  it, 
because  there 's  no  such  difference  between  us.  It 
isn't  the  years  that  make  us  young  or  old — who  is  it 
says  that  1  No  matter,  it 's  true.  And  I  want  you 
to  believe  it.  I  want  you  to  feel  that  /  am  your 
youth — the  youth  you  were  robbed  of — given  back 
to  you.  Will  you  do  it  ?  Oh,  if  you  could,  I  should 
be  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world."  Tears  of  fervour 
dimmed  the  beautiful  eyes  which  looked  into  his. 
"  Don't  speak  !  "  she  hurried  on.  "  I  won't  let  you 
till  I  have  said  it  all.  It 's  been  this  idea,  this  hope, 
with  me  always — ever  since  I  knew  what  happened 
to  you  here  long  ago — that  you  might  go  back  in 
my  life  and  take  up  yours  where  it  was  broken  off; 


278  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

that  I  might  make  your  life  what  it  would  have 
been — complete  your  destiny " 

Colville  wrenched  himself  loose  from  the  hold 
that  had  been  growing  more  tenderly  close  and 
clinging.  "And  do  you  think  I  could  be  such  a 
vampire  as  to  let  you  1  Yes,  yes ;  I  have  had  my 
dreams  of  such  a  thing ;  but  I  see  now  how  hideous 
they  were.  You  shall  make  no  such  sacrifice  to  me. 
You  must  put  away  the  fancies  that  could  never  be 
fulfilled,  or  if  by  some  infernal  magic  they  could, 
would  only  bring  sorrow  to  you  and  shame  to  me. 
God  forbid !  And  God  forgive  me,  if  I  have  done 
or  said  anything  to  put  this  in  your  head !  And 
thank  God  it  isn't  too  late  yet  for  you  to  take 
yourself  back." 

"  Oh,"  she  murmured.  "  Do  you  think  it  is  self- 
sacrifice  for  me  to  give  myself  to  you?  It's  self- 
glorification  !  You  don't  understand — I  haven't 
told  you  what  I  mean,  or  else  I  Ve  told  it  in  such  a 
way  that  I've  made  it  hateful  to  you.  Do  you 
think  I  don't  care  for  you  except  to  be  something  to 
you?  I'm  not  so  generous  as  that.  You  are  all 
the  world  to  me.  If  I  take  myself  back  from  you, 
as  you  say,  what  shall  I  do  with  myself  ] " 

"  Has  it  come  to  that  1 "  asked  Colville.  He  sat 
down  again  with  her,  and  this  time  he  put  his  arm 
around  her  and  drew  her  to  him,  but  it  seemed  to 
him  he  did  it  as  if  she  were  his  child.  "  I  was  going 
to  tell  you  just  now  that  each  of  us  lived  to  himself  in 
this  world,  and  that  no  one  could  hope  to  enter  into 
the  life  of  another  and  complete  it.  But  now  I  see 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  279 

that  I  was  partly  wrong.  We  two  are  bound  together, 
Imogene,  and  whether  we  become  all  in  all  or  nothing 
to  each  other,  we  can  have  no  separate  fate." 

The  girl's  eyes  kindled  with  rapture.  "  Then  let 
us  never  speak  of  it  again.  I  was  going  to  say 
something,  but  now  I  won't  say  it." 

"  Yes,  say  it." 

"  No ;  it  will  make  you  think  that  I  am  anxious 
on  my  own  account  about  appearances  before 
people." 

"You  poor  child,  I  shall  never  think  you  are 
anxious  on  your  own  account  about  anything. 
What  were  you  going  to  say  ? " 

"  Oh,  nothing !  It  was  only — are  you  invited 
to  the  Phillipses'  fancy  ball  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Colville,  silently  making  what  he 
could  of  the  diversion,  "  I  believe  so." 

"And  are  you  going — did  you  mean  to  go?" 
she  asked  timidly. 

"  Good  heavens,  no  !  What  in  the  world  should 
I  do  at  another  fancy  ball  ?  I  walked  about  with 
the  airy  grace  of  a  bull  in  a  china  shop  at  the  last 
one." 

Imogene  did  not  smile.  She  faintly  sighed. 
"  Well,  then,  I  won't  go  either." 

"Did  you  intend  to  go]  " 

"  Oh  no  !  " 

"  Why,  of  course  you  did,  and  it 's  very  right  you 
should.  Did  you  want  me  to  go  ? " 

"  It  would  bore  you." 

"  Not  if  you  're  there."    She  gave  his  hand  a  grate- 


280  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

ful  pressure.  "Come,  I'll  go,  of  course,  Imogene. 
A  fancy  ball  to  please  you  is  a  very  different  thing 
from  a  fancy  ball  in  the  abstract." 

"  Oh,  what  nice  things  you  say  !  Do  you  know,  I 
always  admired  your  compliments  1  I  think  they  're 
the  most  charming  compliments  in  the  world." 

"  I  don't  think  they  're  half  so  pretty  as  yours ; 
but  they  're  more  sincere." 

"  No,  honestly.  They  flatter,  and  at  the  same 
time  they  make  fun  of  the  flattery  a  little ;  they 
make  a  person  feel  that  you  like  them,  even  while 
you  laugh  at  them." 

"  They  appear  to  be  rather  an  intricate  kind  of 
compliment — sort  of  salsa  agradolce  affair — tutti  f rutti 
style — species  of  moral  mayonnaise." 

"  No — be  quiet !  You  know  what  I  mean.  What 
were  we  talking  about  ?  Oh  !  I  was  going  to  say 
that  the  most  fascinating  thing  about  you  always  was 
that  ironical  way  of  yours." 

"  Have  I  an  ironical  way  ?  You  were  going  to 
tell  me  something  more  about  the  fancy  ball." 

"  I  don't  care  for  it.  I  would  rather  talk  about 
you." 

"  And  I  prefer  the  ball.  It 's  a  fresher  topic — to 
me." 

"  Very  well,  then.  But  this  I  will  say.  No  matter 
how  happy  you  should  be,  I  should  always  want  you 
to  keep  that  tone  of  persiflage.  You  've  no  idea  how 
perfectly  intoxicating  it  is." 

"Oh  yes,  I  have.  It  seems  to  have  turned  the 
loveliest  and  wisest  head  in  the  world." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  281 

"  Oh,  do  you  really  think  so  ?  I  would  give  any- 
thing if  you  did." 

"What?" 

"  Think  I  was  pretty,"  she  pleaded,  with  full  eyes. 
"Do  you?" 

"  No,  but  I  think  you  are  wise.  Fifty  per  cent,  of 
truth — it 's  a  large  average  in  compliments.  What 
are  you  going  to  wear  1 " 

"  Wear  1  Oh  !  At  the  ball !  Something  Egyp- 
tian, I  suppose.  It 's  to  be  an  Egyptian  ball.  Didn't 
you  understand  that  3  " 

"  Oh  yes.  But  I  supposed  you  could  go  in  any 
sort  of  dress." 

"  You  can't.  You  must  go  in  some  Egyptian  char- 
acter." 

"  How  would  Moses  do  1  In  the  bulrushes,  you 
know.  You  could  be  Pharaoh's  daughter,  and  re- 
cognise me  by  my  three  hats.  And  toward  the  end 
of  the  evening,  when  I  became  very  much  bored,  I 
could  go  round  killing  Egyptians." 

11  No,  no.  Be  serious.  Though  I  like  you  to  joke, 
too.  I  shall  always  want  you  to  joke.  Shall  you, 
always  1 " 

"  There  may  be  emergencies  when  I  shall  fail — 
like  family  prayers,  and  grace  before  meat,  and 
dangerous  sickness." 

"Why,  of  course.  But  I  mean  when  we're  to- 
gether, and  there  's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  1  " 

"  Oh,  at  such  times  I  shall  certainly  joke." 

"  And  before  people,  too !  I  won't  have  them 
saying  that  it 's  sobered  you — that  you  used  to  be 


282  INDIAN  SUMMER, 

very  gay,  and  now  you  're  cross,  and  never  say  any- 
thing." 

"  I  will  try  to  keep  it  up  sufficiently  to  meet  the 
public  demand." 

"  And  I  shall  want  you  to  joke  me,  too.  You  must 
satirise  me.  It  does  more  to  show  me  my  faults  than 
anything  else,  and  it  will  show  other  people  how  per- 
fectly submissive  I  am,  and  how  I  think  everything 
you  do  is  just  right." 

"  If  I  were  to  beat  you  a  little  in  company,  don't 
you  think  it  would  serve  the  same  purpose  1 " 

11  No,  no ;  be  serious." 

"  About  joking  ?" 

"  No,  about  me.  I  know  that  I  'm  very  intense, 
and  you  must  try  to  correct  that  tendency  in  me." 

"  I  will,  with  pleasure.  Which  of  my  tendencies 
are  you  going  to  correct  1 " 

"  You  have  none." 

"Well,  then,  neither  have  you.  I'm  not  going 
to  be  outdone  in  civilities." 

"  Oh,  if  people  could  only  hear  you  talk  in  this 
light  way,  and  then  know  what  /  know  !  " 

Colville  broke  out  into  a  laugh  at  the  deep  sigh 
which  accompanied  these  words.  As  a  whole,  the 
thing  was  grotesque  and  terrible  to  him,  but  after  a 
habit  of  his,  he  was  finding  a  strange  pleasure  in  its 
details. 

"  No,  no,"  she  pleaded.  "  Don't  laugh.  There 
are  girls  that  would  give  their  eyes  for  it." 

"  As  pretty  eyes  as  yours  1 " 

"  Do  you  think  they  're  nice  %  " 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  2*3 

"  Yes,  if  they  were  not  so  mysterious." 

"  Mysterious  1 "      . 

"Yes,  I  feel  that  your  eyes  can't  really  be  as 
honest  as  they  look.  That  was  what  puzzled  me 
about  them  the  first  night  I  saw  you." 

«  No— did  it,  really  V 

"  I  went  home  saying  to  myself  that  no  girl  could 
be  so  sincere  as  that  Miss  Graham  seemed." 

"  Did  you  say  that  ? " 

"  Words  to  that  effect." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  now  ? " 

"  Ah,  I  don't  know.  You  had  better  go  as  the 
Sphinx." 

Imogene  laughed  in  simple  gaiety  of  heart. 
"  How  far  we  Ve  got  from  the  ball ! "  she  said,  as  if 
the  remote  excursion  were  a  triumph.  "  What 
shall  we  really  go  as  ?  " 

"  Isis  and  Osiris." 

"  Weren't  they  gods  of  some  kind  1 " 

"  Little  one-horse  deities — not  very  much." 

"  It  won't  do  to  go  as  gods  of  any  kind.  They  're 
always  failures.  People  expect  too  much  of 
them." 

"Yes,"  said  Colville.  "That's  human  nature 
undej:  all  circumstances.  But  why  go  to  an  Egyp- 
tian ball  at  all  1 " 

"  Oh,  we  must  go.  If  we  both  stayed  away  it 
would  make  talk  at  once,  and  my  object  is  to  keep 
people  in  the  dark  till  the  very  last  moment.  Of 
course  it's  unfortunate  your  having  told  Mrs. 
Amsden  that  you  were  going  away,  and  then  telling 


284  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

her  just  after  you  came  back  with  me  that  you  were 
going  to  stay.  But  it  can't  be  helped  now.  And  I 
don't  really  care  for  it.  But  don't  you  see  why  I 
want  you  to  go  to  all  these  things  1 " 

"  All  these  things  ? " 

"Yes,  everything  you  re  invited  to  after  this. 
It 's  not  merely  for  a  blind  as  regards  ourselves  now, 
but  if  they  see  that  you  're  very  fond  of  all  sorts  of 
gaieties,  they  will  see  that  you  are — they  will 
und  erstand " 

There  was  no  need  for  her  to  complete  the 
sentence.  Colville  rose.  "  Come,  come,  my  dear 
child,"  he  said,  "  why  don't  you  end  all  this  at  once  1 
I  don't  blame  you.  Heaven  knows  I  blame  no  one 
but  myself !  I  ought  to  have  the  strength  to  break 
away  from  this  mistake,  but  I  haven't.  I  couldn't 
bear  to  see  you  suffer  from  pain  that  I  should  give 
you  even  for  your  good.  But  do  it  yourself,  Imo- 
gene,  and  for  pity's  sake  don't  forbear  from  any 
notion  of  sparing  me.  I  have  no  wish  except  for 
your  happiness,  and  now  I  tell  you  clearly  that  no 
appearance  we  can  put  on  before  the  world  will 
deceive  the  world.  At  the  end  of  all  our  trouble  I 
shall  still  be  forty " 

She  sprang  to  him  and  put  her  hand  over  his 
mouth.  "  I  know  what  you  're  going  to  say,  and  I 
won't  let  you  say  it,  for  you  Ve  promised  over  and 
over  again  not  to  speak  of  that  any  more.  Oh,  do 
you  think  I  care  for  the  world,  or  what  it  will  think 
or  say  1 " 

"Yes,  very  much." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  285 

"  That  shows  how  little  you  understand  me.  It 's 
because  I  wish  to  defy  the  world " 

"  Imogene  !  Be  as  honest  with  yourself  as  you 
are  with  me." 

"  I  am  honest." 

"  Look  me  in  the  eyes,  then." 

She  did  so  for  an  instant,  and  then  hid  her 
face  on  his  shoulder. 

"  You  silly  girl,"  he  said.  "  What  is  it  you  really 
do  wish  ? " 

"  I  wish  there  was  no  one  in  the  world  but  you 
and  me." 

"  Ah,  you  'd  find  it  very  crowded  at  times,"  said 
Colville  sadly.  "  Well,  well,"  he  added,  "  I  '11  go  to 
your  fandangoes,  because  you  want  me  to  go." 

"That's  all  I  wished  you  to  say,"  she  replied,  lift 
ing  her  head,  and  looking  him  radiantly  in  the  face. 
"  I  don't  want  you  to  go  at  all !  I  only  want  you 
to  promise  that  you  '11  come  here  every  night  that 
you're  invited  out,  and  read  to  Mrs.  Bowen  and 
me." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  do  that,"  said  Colville ;  "  I'm  too 
fond  of  society.  For  example,  I've  been  invited 
to  an  Egyptian  fancy  ball,  and  I  couldn't  think  of 
giving  that  up." 

"  Oh,  how  delightful  you  are  !  They  couldn't 
any  of  them  talk  like  you." 

He  had  learned  to  follow  the  processes  of  her 
thought  now.  "  Perhaps  they  can  when  they  come 
to  my  age." 

"  There  ! "  she  exclaimed,  putting  her  hand  on  his 


286  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

mouth  again,  to  remind  him  of  another.  broKen  pro- 
mise. "  Why  can't  you  give  up  the  Egyptian  ball  V1 

"  Because  I  expect  to  meet  a  young  lady  there — 
a  very  beautiful  young  lady." 

"But  how  shall  you  know  her  if  she 's  disguised?" 

"  Why,  I  shall  be  disguised  too,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  what  delicious  nonsense  you  do  talk !  Sit 
down  here  and  tell  me  what  you  are  going  to  wear." 

She  tried  to  pull  him  back  to  the  sofa.  "  What 
character  shall  you  go  in  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  resisting  the  gentle  traction. 
"  I  can't ;  I  have  urgent  business  down-town." 

"  Oh  !     Business  in  Florence  !  " 

"  Well,  if  I  stayed,  I  should  tell  you  what  disguise 
I  'm  going  to  the  ball  in." 

"  I  knew  it  was  that.  What  do  you  think  would 
be  a  good  character  for  me  1 " 

"  I  don't  know.  The  serpent  of  old  Nile  would 
be  pretty  good  for  you." 

"  Oh,  I  know  you  don't  think  it !"  she  cried  fondly. 
She  had  now  let  him  take  her  hand,  and  he  stood 
holding  it  at  arm's-length.  Effie  Bowen  came  into 
the  room.  "  Good-bye,"  said  Imogene,  with  an  in- 
stant assumption  of  society  manner. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Colville,  and  went  out. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Colville  ! "  she  called,  before  he  got  to 
the  outer  door. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  starting  back. 

She  met  him  midway  of  the  dim  corridor.  "  Only 

to "  She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  sweetly 

kissed  him. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  287 

Colville  went  out  into  the  sunlight  feeling  like 
some  strange,  newly  invented  kind  of  scoundrel — a 
rascal  of  such  recent  origin  and  introduction  that  he 
had  not  yet  had  time  to  classify  himself  and  ascer- 
tain the  exact  degree  of  his  turpitude.  The  task 
employed  his  thoughts  all  that  day,  and  kept  him 
vibrating  between  an  instinctive  conviction  of  mon- 
strous wickedness  and  a  logical  and  well-reasoned 
perception  that  he  had  all  the  facts  and  materials  for 
a  perfectly  good  conscience.  He  was  the  betrothed 
lover  of  this  poor  child,  whose  affection  he  could  not 
check  without  a  degree  of  brutality  for  which  only 
a  better  man  would  have  the  courage.  When  he 
thought  of  perhaps  refusing  her  caresses,  he  imagined 
the  shock  it  would  give  her,  and  the  look  of  grief 
and  mystification  that  would  come  into  her  eyes, 
and  he  found  himself  incapable  of  that  cruel  recti- 
tude. He  knew  that  these  were  the  impulses  of  a 
white  and  loving  soul ;  but  at  the  end  of  all  his 
argument  they  remained  a  terror  to  him,  so  that  he 
lacked  nothing  but  the  will  to  fly  from  Florence 
and  shun  her  altogether  till  she  had  heard  from 
her  family.  This,  he  recalled,  with  bitter  self-re- 
proach was  what  had  been  his  first  inspiration ; 
he  had  spoken  of  it  to  Mrs.  Bowen,  and  it  had  still 
everything  in  its  favour  except  that  it  was  im- 
possible. 

Imogene  returned  to  the  salotto,  where  the  little 
girl  was  standing  with  her  face  to  the  window, 
drearily  looking  out ;  her  back  expressed  an  inner 
desolation  which  revealed  itself  in  her  eyes  when 


288  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Imogene  caught  her  head  between  her  hands,  and 
tilted  up  her  face  to  kiss  it. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Effie  ?  "  she  demanded  gaily. 

"Nothing." 

"  Oh  yes,  there  is." 

"Nothing  that  you  will  care  for.  As  long  as 
he  's  pleasant  to  you,  you  don't  care  what  he  does 
to  me." 

"  What  has  he  done  to  you  ? " 

"  He  didn't  take  the  slightest  notice  of  me  when  I 
came  into  the  room.  He  didn't  speak  to  me,  or  even 
look  at  me." 

Imogene  caught  the  little  grieving,  quivering  face 
to  her  breast.  "  He  is  a  wicked,  wicked  wretch  ! 
And  I  will  give  him  the  awfulest  scolding  he  ever 
had  when  he  comes  here  again.  I  will  teach  him  to 
neglect  my  pet.  I  will  let  him  understand  that  if 
he  doesn't  notice  you,  he  needn't  notice  me.  I  will 
tell  you,  Effie — I  've  just  thought  of  a  way.  The 
next  time  he  comes  we  will  both  receive  him.  We 
will  sit  up  very  stiffly  on  the  sofa  together,  and  just 
answer  Yes,  No,  Yes,  No,  to  everything  he  says,  till 
he  begins  to  take  the  hint,  and  learns  how  to  behave 
himself.  Will  you?" 

A  smile  glittered  through  the  little  girl's  tears ; 
but  she  asked,  "Do  you  think  it  would  be  very 
polite?" 

"  No  matter,  polite  or  not,  it 's  what  he  deserves. 
Of  course,  as  soon  as  he  begins  to  take  the  hint,  we 
will  be  just  as  we  always  are." 

Imogene  despatched  a  note,  which  Colville  got  the 


INDIAN  SUMMEU.  289 

next  morning,  to  tell  him  of  his  crime,  and  apprise 
him  of  his  punishment,  and  of  the  sweet  compunc- 
tion that  had  pleaded  for  him  in  the  breast  of  the 
child.  If  he  did  not  think  he  could  help  play  the 
comedy  through,  he  must  come  prepared  to  offer 
Effie  some  sort  of  atonement. 

It  was  easy  to  do  this  :  to  come  with  his  pockets 
full  of  presents,  and  take  the  little  girl  on  his  lap, 
and  pour  out  all  his  troubled  heart  in  the  caresses 
and  tendernesses  which  would  bring  him  no  remorse. 
He  humbled  himself  to  her  thoroughly,  and  with  a 
strange  sincerity  in  the  harmless  duplicity,  and  pro- 
mised, if  she  would  take  him  back  into  favour,  that 
he  would  never  offend  again.  Mrs.  Bowen  had  sent 
word  that  she  was  not  well  enough  to  see  him ;  she 
had  another  of  her  headaches;  and  he  sent  back 
a  sympathetic  and  respectful  message  by  Effie,  who 
stood  thoughtfully  at  her  mother's  pillow  after  she 
had  delivered  it,  fingering  the  bouquet  Colville  had 
brought  her,  and  putting  her  head  first  on  this  side, 
and  then  on  that  to  admire  it. 

"  I  think  Mr.  Colville  and  Imogene  are  much  more 
affectionate  than  they  used  to  be,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Bowen  started  up  on  her  elbow.  "  What  do 
you  mean,  Effie  1 " 

"  Oh,  they  're  both  so  good  to  me." 

"  Yes,"  said  her  mother,  dropping  back  to  her 
pillow.  "Both?" 

"  Yes ;  he 's  the  most  affectionate." 

The    mother    turned    her   face   the    other   way. 
"  Then  he  must  be,"  she  murmured. 
T 


290  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  What  ? "  asked  the  child. 

"Nothing.     I  didn't  know  I  spoke." 

The  little  girl  stood  a  while  still  playing  with  her 
flowers.  "/  think  Mr.  Colville  is  about  the  plea- 
santest  gentleman  that  comes  here.  Don't  you, 
mamma  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  He  's  so  interesting,  and  says  such  nice  things. 
I  don't  know  whether  children  ought  to  think  of 
such  things,  but  I  wish  I  was  going  to  marry  some 
one  like  Mr.  Colville.  Of  course  I  should  want  to 
be  tolerably  old  if  I  did.  How  old  do  you  think  a 
person  ought  to  be  to  marry  him  ? " 

"  You  mustn't  talk  of  such  things,  Effie,"  said  her 
mother. 

"No;  I  suppose  it  isn't  very  nice."  She  picked 
out  a  bud  in  her  bouquet,  and  kissed  it ;  then  she 
held  the  nosegay  at  arm's-length  before  her,  and 
danced  away  with  it. 


XVII. 

IN  the  ensuing  fortnight  a  great  many  gaieties 
besides  the  Egyptian  ball  took  place,  and  Colville 
went  wherever  he  and  Imogene  were  both  invited. 
He  declined  the  quiet  dinners  which  he  liked,  and 
which  his  hearty  appetite  and  his  habit  of  talk  fitted 
him  to  enjoy,  and  accepted  invitations  to  all  sorts  of 
evenings  and  At  Homes,  where  dancing  occupied  a 
modest  corner  of  the  card,  and  usurped  the  chief 
place  in  the  pleasures.  At  these  places  it  was 
mainly  his  business  to  see  Imogene  danced  with 
by  others,  but  sometimes  he  waltzed  with  her  him- 
self, and  then  he  was  complimented  by  people  of  his 
own  age,  who  had  left  off  dancing,  upon  his  vigour. 
They  said  they  could  not  stand  that  sort  of  thing, 
though  they  supposed,  if  you  kept  yourself  in  prac- 
tice, it  did  not  come  so  hard.  One  of  his  hostesses, 
who  had  made  a  party  for  her  daughters,  told  him 
that  he  was  an  example  to  everybody,  and  that  if 
middle-aged  people  at  home  mingled  more  in  the 
amusements  of  the  young,  American  society  would 
not  be  the  silly,  insipid,  boy-and-girl  affair  that  it 
was  now.  He  went  to  these  places  in  the  character 

291 


292  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

of  a  young  man,  but  he  was  not  readily  accepted  or 
recognised  in  that  character.  They  gave  him  frumps 
to  take  out  to  supper,  mothers  and  maiden  aunts, 
and  if  the  mothers  were  youngish,  they  threw  off 
on  him,  and  did  not  care  for  his  talk. 

At  one  of  the  parties  Imogene  seemed  to  become 
aware  for  the  first  time  that  the  lapels  of  his  dress- 
coat  were  not  faced  with  silk. 

"  Why  don't  you  have  them  so  1 "  she  asked. 
"All  the  other  young  men  have.  And  you  ought 
to  wear  a  boutonniere." 

"  Oh,  I  think  a  man  looks  rather  silly  in  silk 

lapels  at  my "  He  arrested  himself,  and  then 

continued :  "  I  '11  see  what  the  tailor  can  do  for 
me.  In  the  meantime,  give  me  a  bud  out  of  your 
bouquet." 

"  How  sweet  you  are  ! "  she  sighed.  "  You  do  the 
least  thing  so  that  it  is  ten  times  as  good  as  if  any 
one  else  did  it." 

The  same  evening,  as  he  stood  leaning  against  a 
doorway,  behind  Imogene  and  a  young  fellow  with 
whom  she  was  beginning  a  quadrille,  he  heard  her 
taking  him  to  task. 

"Why  do  you  say  'Sir'  to  Mr.  Colville  ?" 

"  Well,  I  know  the  English  laugh  at  us  for  doing 
it,  and  say  it 's  like  servants ;  but  I  never  feel  quite 
right  answering  just  '  Yes '  and  '  No '  to  a  man  of  his 
age." 

This  was  one  of  the  Inglehart  boys,  whom  he  met 
at  nearly  all  of  these  parties,  and  not  all  of  whom 
were  so  respectful.  Some  of  them  treated  him  upon 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  293 

an  old-boy  theory,  joking  him  as  freely  as  if  he  were 
one  of  themselves,  laughing  his  antiquated  notions  of 
art  to  scorn,  but  condoning  them  because  he  was 
good-natured,  and  because  a  man  could  not  help 
being  of  his  own  epoch  anyway.  They  put  a  cari- 
cature of  him  among  the  rest  on  the  walls  jof  their 
trattoria,  where  he  once  dined  with  them. 

Mrs.  Bo  wen  did  not  often  see  him  when  he  went 
to  call  upon  Imogene,  and  she  was  not  at  more  than 
two  or  three  of  the  parties.  Mrs.  Amsden  came  to 
chaperon  the  girl,  and  apparently  suffered  an  in- 
crease of  unrequited  curiosity  in  regard  to  his  rela- 
tions to  the  Bowen  household,  and  the  extraordinary 
development  of  his  social  activity.  Colville  not 
only  went  to  all  those  evening  parties,  but  he  was 
in  continual  movement  during  the  afternoon  at  re- 
ceptions and  at  "  days,"  of  which  he  began  to  think 
each  lady  had  two  or  three.  Here  he  drank  tea,  cup 
after  cup,  in  reckless  excitement,  and  at  night  when 
he  came  home  from  the  dancing  parties,  dropping 
with  fatigue,  he  could  not  sleep  till  toward  morning. 
He  woke  at  the  usual  breakfast-hour,  and  then  went 
about  drowsing  throughout  the  day  till  the  tea  began 
again  in  the  afternoon.  He  fell  asleep  whenever  he 
sat  down,  not  only  in  the  reading-room  at  Viesseux's, 
where  he  disturbed  the  people  over  their  newspapers 
by  his  demonstrations  of  somnolence,  but  even  at 
church,  whither  he  went  one  Sunday  to  please  Imo- 
gene, and  started  awake  during  the  service  with  the 
impression  that  the  clergyman  had  been  making  a 
joke.  Everybody  but  Imogene  was  smiling.  At 


294  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

the  cafe  he  slept  without  scruple,  selecting  a  corner 
seat  for  the  purpose,  and  proportioning  his  buonamano 
to  the  indulgence  of  the  giomne.  He  could  not  tell 
how  long  he  slept  at  these  places,  but  sometimes  it 
seemed  to  him  hours. 

One  day  he  went  to  see  Imogene,  and  while  Erne 
Bowen  stood  prattling  to  him  as  he  sat  waiting  for 
Imogene  to  come  in,  he  faded  light-headedly  away 
from  himself  on  the  sofa,  as  if  he  had  been  in  his 
corner  at  the  cafe".  Then  he  was  aware  of  some  one 
saying  "  'Sh  ! "  and  he  saw  Erne  Bowen,  with  her 
finger  on  her  lip,  turned  toward  Imogene,  a  figure 
of  beautiful  despair  in  the  doorway.  He  was  all 
tucked  up  with  sofa  pillows,  and  made  very  comfort- 
able, by  the  child,  no  doubt.  She  slipped  out,  seeing 
him  awake,  so  as  to  leave  him  and  Imogene  alone, 
as  she  had  apparently  been  generally  instructed  to 
do,  and  Imogene  came  forward. 

"  "What  is  the  matter,  Theodore  1 "  she  asked 
patiently.  She  had  taken  to  calling  him  Theodore 
when  they  were  alone.  She  owned  that  she  did  not 
like  the  name,  but  she  said  it  was  right  she  should 
call  him  by  it,  since  it  was  his.  She  came  and  sat 
down  beside  him,  where  he  had  raised  himself  to  a 
sitting  posture,  but  she  did  not  offer  him  any  caress. 

"  Nothing,"  he  answered.  "  But  this  climate  is 
making  me  insupportably  drowsy;  or  else  the 
spring  weather." 

"  Oh  no ;  it  isn't  that,"  she  said,  with  a  slight  sigh. 
He  had  left  her  in  the  middle  of  a  german  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  but  she  now  looked  as  fresh 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  295 

and  lambent  as  a  star.  "  It 's  the .  late  hours. 
They  're  killing  you." 

Colville  tried  to  deny  it;  his  incoherencies  dis- 
solved themselves  in  a  yawn,  which  he  did  not 
succeed  in  passing  for  a  careless  laugh. 

"It  won't  do,"  she  said,  as  if  speaking  to  herself; 
"no,  it  won't  do." 

"Oh  yes,  it  will,"  Colville  protested.  "I  don't 
mind  being  up.  I  Ve  been  used  to  it  all  my  life  on 
the  paper.  It's  just  some  temporary  thing.  It'll 
come  all  right." 

"  Well,  no  matter,"  said  Imogene.  "  It  makes 
you  ridiculous,  going  to  all  those  silly  places,  and 
I  Jd  rather  give  it  up." 

The  tears  began  to  steal  down  her  cheeks,  and 
Colville  sighed.  It  seemed  to  him  that  somebody 
or  other  was  always  crying.  A  man  never  quite 
gets  used  to  the  tearfulness  of  women. 

"  Oh,  don't  mind  it,"  he  said.  "  If  you  wish  me 
to  go,  I  will  go  !  Or  die  in  the  attempt,"  he  added? 
with  a  smile. 

Imogene  did  not  smile  with  him.  "  I  don't  wish 
you  to  go  any  more.  It  was  a  mistake  in  the  first 
place,  and  from  this  out  I  will  adapt  myself  to  you." 

"  And  give  up  all  your  pleasures  1  Do  you  think 
I  would  let  you  do  that  ?  No,  indeed  !  Neither  in 
this  nor  in  anything  else.  I  will  not  cut  off  your 
young  life  in  any  way,  Imogene — not  shorten  it  or 
diminish  it.  If  I  thought  I  should  do  that^  or  you 
would  try  to  do  it  for  me,  I  should  wish  I  had 
never  seen  you." 


296  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  It  isn't  that.  I  know  how  good  you  are,  and 
that  you  would  do  anything  for  me." 

"  Well,  then,  why  don't  you  go  to  these  fandan- 
goes alone  1  I  can  see  that  you  have  me  on  your 
mind  all  the  time,  when  I  'm  with  you." 

"  Oughtn't  1 1 " 

"  Yes,  up  to  a  certain  point,  but  not  up  to  the 
point  of  spoiling  your  fun.  I  will  drop  in  now  and 
then,  but  I  won't  try  to  come  to  all  of  them,  after 
this;  you'll  get  along  perfectly  well  with  Mrs. 
Amsden,  and  I  shall  be  safe  from  her  for  a  while. 
That  old  lady  has  marked  me  for  her  prey :  I  can 
see  it 'in  her  glittering  eyeglass.  I  shall  fall  asleep 
some  evening  between  dances,  and  then  she  will 
get  it  all  out  of  me." 

Imogene  still  refused  to  smile.  "  No ;  I  shall 
give  it  up.  I  don't  think  it 's  well,  going  so  much 
without  Mrs.  Bowen.  People  will  begin  to  talk." 

"Talk!" 

"  Yes ;  they  will  begin  to  say  that  I  had  better 
stay  with  her  a  little  more,  if  she  isn't  well." 

"Why,  isn't  Mrs.  Bowen  well?"  asked  Colville, 
with  trepidation. 

"  No  ;  she  's  miserable.     Haven't  you  noticed  1 " 

"  She  sees  me  so  seldom  now.  I  thought  it  was 
only  her  headaches " 

"It 'a  much  more  than  that.  She  seems  to  be 
failing  every  way.  The  doctor  has  told  her  she 
oughfc  to  get  away  from  Florence."  Colville  could 
not  speak  ;  Imogene  went  on.  "  She 's  always  deli- 
cate, you  know.  And  I  feel  that  all  that 's  keeping 


INDIAN  SUMMER,  297 

her  here  now  is  the  news  from  home  that  I — we  're 
waiting  for." 

Colville  got  up.  "  This  is  ghastly  !  She  mustn't 
do  it ! " 

"  How  can  you  help  her  doing  it  ?  If  she  thinks 
anything  is  right,  she  can't  help  doing  it.  Who 
could  ? " 

Colville  thought  to  himself  that  he  could  have 
said;  but  he  was  silent.  At  the  moment  he  was 
not  equal  to  so  much  joke  or  so  much  truth ;  and 
Imogene  went  on — 

"  She  'd  be  all  the  more  strenuous  about  it  if  it 
were  disagreeable,  and  rather  than  accept  any  re- 
lief from  me  she  would  die." 

"  Is  she — unkind  to  you?  "  faltered  Colville. 

"  She  is  only  too  kind.  You  can  feel  that  she  's 
determined  to  be  so — that  she 's  said  she  will  have 
nothing  to  reproach  herself  with,  and  she  won't. 
You  don't  suppose  Mrs.  Bowen  would  be  unkind  to 
any  one  she  disliked  ? " 

"  Ah,  I  didn't  know,"  sighed  Colville. 

"  The  more  she  disliked  them,  the  better  she  would 
use  them.  It's  because  our  engagement  is  so  dis- 
tasteful to  her  that  she 's  determined  to  feel  that  she 
did  nothing  to  oppose  it." 

-"  But  how  can  you  tell  that  it 's  distasteful,  then  ?" 

"  She  lets  you  feel  it  by — not  saying  anything 
about  it." 

"  I  can't  see  how " 

"She  never  speaks  of  you.  I  don't  believe  she 
ever  mentions  your  name.  She  asks  me  about  the 


298  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

places  where  I  Ve  been,  and  about  the  people — every 
one  but  you.  It 's  very  uncomfortable." 

"Yes,"  said  Colville,  "it's  uncomfortable." 

"  And  if  I  allude  to  letters  from  home,  she  merely 
presses  her  lips  together.  It 's  perfectly  wretched." 

"  I  see.  It 's  I  whom  she  dislikes,  and  I  would 
do  anything  to  please  her.  She  must  know  that," 
mused  Colville  aloud.  "  Imogene  !"  he  exclaimed, 
with  a  sudden  inspiration.  "Why  shouldn't  I  go 
away  ?" 

"Go  away?"  she  palpitated.  "What  should  / 
dof 

The  colours  faded  from  his  brilliant  proposal. 
"  Oh,  I  only  meant  till  something  was  settled — de- 
termined—concluded ;  till  this  terrible  suspense  was 
over."  He  added  hopelessly,  "  But  nothing  can  be 
done  !" 

"  I  proposed,"  said  Imogene,  "  that  we  should'  all 
go  away.  "  I  suggested  Via  Reggio — the  doctor 
said  she  ought  to  have  sea  air — or  Venice  ;  but  she 
wouldn't  hear  of  it.  No  ;  we  must  wait." 

"  Yes,  we  must  wait,"  repeated  Colville  hollowly. 
"Then  nothing  can  be  done  1" 

"Why,  haven't  you  said  it  V9 

"  Oh  yes — yes.  I  can't  go  away,  and  you  can't. 
But  couldn't  we  do  something — get  up  some- 
thing 1 " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"I  mean,  couldn't  we — amuse  her  somehow  ?  help 
her  to  take  her  mind  off  herself  ?" 

Imogene  stared  at  him  rather  a  long  time.     Then, 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  299 

as  if  she  had  satisfied  herself  in  her  own  mind,  she 
shook  her  head.     "  She  wouldn't  submit  to  it." 

*'  No  ;  she  seems  to  take  everything  amiss  that  I 
do,"  said  Colville. 

"  She  has  no  right  to  do  that,"  cried  Imogene. 
"  I  'm  sure  that  you  're  always  considering  her,  and 
proposing  to  do  things  for  her.  I  won't  let  you 
humble  yourself,  as  if  you  had  wronged  her." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  call  it  humbling.  I — I  should  only 
be  too  happy  if  I  could  do  anything  that  was  agree- 
able to  her." 

"Very  well,  I  will  tell  her,"  said  the  girl 
haughtily.  "  Shall  you  object  to  my  joining  you 
in  your  amusements,  whatever  they  are  ?  I  assure 
you  I  will  be  very  unobtrusive." 

"I  don't  understand  all  this,"  replied  Colville.' 
"  Who  has  proposed  to  exclude  you  ?  Why  did  you 
tell  me  anything  about  Mrs.  Bowen  if  you  didn't 
want  me  to  say  or  do  something  ?  I  supposed  you 
did  ;  but  I  '11  withdraw  the  offensive  proposition, 
whatever  it  was." 

"  There  was  nothing  offensive.  But  if  you  pity 
her  so  much,  why  can't  you  pity  me  a  little  ? " 

"  I  didn't  know  anything  was  the  matter  with 
you.  I  thought  you  were  enjoying  yourself " 

"  Enjoying  ?  Keeping  you  up  at  dances  till  you 
drop  asleep  whenever  you  sit  down?  And  then 
coming  home  and  talking  to  a  person  who  won't 
mention  your  name  !  Do  you  call  that  enjoying  ] 
I  can't  speak  of  you  to  any  one  ;  and  no  one  speaks 


300  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  If  you  like,  I  will  talk  to  you  on  the  subject," 
Colville  essayed,  in  dreary  jest. 

"  Oh,  don't  joke  about  it !  This  perpetual  joking, 
I  believe  it 's  that  that 's  wearing  me  out.  When  I 
come  to  you  for  a  little  comfort  in  circumstances  that 
drive  me  almost  distracted,  you  want  to  amuse  Mrs. 
Bowen,  and  when  I  ask  to  be  allowed  to  share  in  the 
amusement,  you  laugh  at  me  !  If  you  don't  under- 
stand it  all,  I  Jm  sure  I  don't." 

"Imogene  !" 

"  No  !  It 's  very  strange.  There  's  only  one  ex- 
planation. You  don't  care  for  me." 

"  Not  care  for  you  1"  cried  Colville,  thinking  of 
his  sufferings  in  the  past  fortnight. 

"  And  I  would  have  made  any — any  sacrifice  for 
•  you.    At  least  I  wouldn't  have  made  you  show  your- 
self a  mean  and  grudging  person  if  you  had  come  to 
me  for  a  little  sympathy.'* 

"  0  poor  child  ! "  he  cried,  and  his  heart  ached 
with  the  sense  that  she  really  was  nothing  but  an 
unhappy  child.  "  I  do  sympathise  with  you,  and  I 
see  how  hard  it  is  for  you  to  manage  with  Mrs. 
Bowen's  dislike  for  me.  But  you  mustn't  think  of 
it.  I  dare  say  it  will  be  different ;  I  've  no  doubt 
we  can  get  her  to  look  at  me  in  some  brighter  light. 

I "     He  did  not  know  what  he  should  urge  next; 

but  he  goaded  his  invention,  and  was  able  to  declare 
that  if  they  loved  each  other  they  need  not  regard 
any  one  else.  This  flight,  when  accomplished,  did 
not  strike  him  as  of  very  original  effect,  and  it  was 
with  a  dull  surprise  that  he  saw  it  sufficed  for  her. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  301 

"  No  ;  no  one  ! "  she  exclaimed,  accepting  the 
platitude  as  if  it  were  now  uttered  for  the  first 
time.  She  dried  her  eyes  and  smiled.  "  I  will  tell 
Mrs.  Bo  wen  how  you  feel  and  what  you  've  said,  and 
I  know  she  will  appreciate  your  generosity." 

"  Yes,"  said  Colville  pensively  ;  "  there 's  nothing 
I  won't  propose  doing  for  people." 

She  suddenly  clung  to  him,  and  would  not  let  him 
go.  "  Oh,  what  is  the  matter  1 "  she  moaned  afresh. 
"I  show  out  the  worst  that  is  in  me,  and  only  the 
worst.  Do  you  think  I  shall  always  be  so  narrow- 
minded  with  you  1  I  thought  I  loved  you  enough 
to  be  magnanimous.  You  are.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  our  lives  together  would  be  grand  and  large ; 
and  here  I  am,  grovelling  in  the  lowest  selfishness ! 
I  am  worrying  and  scolding  you  because  you  wish 
to  please  some  one  that  has  been  as  good  as  my  own 
mother  to  me.  Do  you  call  that  noble  1 " 

Colville  did  not  venture  any  reply  to  a  demand 
evidently  addressed  to  her  own  conscience. 

But  when  she  asked  if  he  really  thought  he  had 
better  go  away,  he  said,  "  Oh  no ;  that  was  a  mis- 
take." 

"Because,  if  you  do,  you  shall — to  punish 
me." 

-"  My  dearest  girl,  why  should  I  wish  to  punish 
you  ? " 

"Because  I  Ve  been  low  and  mean.  Now  I  want 
you  to  do  something  for  Mrs.  Bowen — something  to 
amuse  her ;  to  show  that  we  appreciate  her.  And  I 
don't  want  you  to  sympathise  with  me  at  all.  When 


302  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

I  ask  for  your  sympathy,  it 's  a  sign  that  I  don't 
deserve  it." 

"  Is  that  so  1 " 

"Oh,  be  serious  with  me.  I  mean  it.  And  I 
want  to  beg  your  pardon  for  something." 

"  Yes  ;  what  's  that  ?  " 

"  Can't  you  guess  1 " 

"No." 

"You  needn't  have  your  lapels  silk-lined.  You 
needn't  wear  boutonnieres." 

"  Oh,  but  I  Ve  had  the  coat  changed." 

"  No  matter  !  Change  it  back  !  It  isn't  for  me 
to  make  you  over.  I  must  make  myself  over.  It 's 
my  right,  it 's  my  sacred  privilege  to  conform  to  you 
in  every  way,  and  I  humble  myself  in  the  dust  for 
having  forgotten  it  at  the  very  start.  Oh,  do  you 
think  I  can  ever  be  worthy  of  you  1,  I  will  try ; 
indeed  I  will !  I  shall  not  wear  my  light  dresses 
another  time  !  From  this  out,  I  shall  dress  more 
in  keeping  with  you.  I  boasted  that  I  should  live 
to  comfort  and  console  you,  to  recompense  you  for 
the  past,  and  what  have  I  been  doing  ?  Wearying 
and  degrading  you  ! " 

"  Oh  no,"  pleaded  Colville.  "  I  am  very  comfort- 
able. I  don't  need  any  compensation  for  the  past. 
I  need — sleep.  I  'm  going  to  bed  to-night  at  eight 
o'clock,  and  I  am  going  to  sleep  twenty-four  hours. 
Then  I  shall  be  fresh  for  Mrs.  Fleming's  ball." 

"  I  'm  not  going,"  said  Imogene  briefly. 

"Oh  yes,  you  are.  I'll  come  round  to-morrow 
evening  and  see." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  303 

"  No.     There  are  to  be  no  more  parties." 

"Why!" 

"I  can't  endure  them." 

She  was  looking  at  him  and  talking  at  him,  but 
she  seemed  far  aloof  in  the  abstraction  of  a  sublime 
regret ;  she  seemed  puzzled,  bewildered  at  herself. 

Colville  got  away.  He  felt  the  pathos  of  the  con- 
fusion and  question  to  which  he  left  her,  but  he  felt 
himself  powerless  against  it.  There  was  but  one 
solution  to  it  all,  and  that  was  impossible.  He 
could  only  grieve  over  her  trouble,  and  wait ;  grieve 
for  the  irrevocable  loss  which  made  her  trouble  re- 
mote and  impersonal  to  him,  and  submit. 


XVIII. 

THE  young  clergyman  whom  Colville  saw  talking 
to  Imogene  on  his  first  evening  at  Mrs.  Bowen's  had 
come  back  from  Rome,  where  he  had  been  spending 
a  month  or  two,  and  they  began  to  meet  at  Palazzo 
Pinti  again.  If  they  got  on  well  enough  together, 
they  did  not  get  on  very  far.  The  suave  house-priest 
manners  of  the  young  clergyman  offended  Colville ; 
he  could  hardly  keep  from  sneering  at  his  taste  in 
art  and  books,  which  in  fact  was  rather  conventional ; 
and  no  doubt  Mr.  Morton  had  his  own  reserves, 
under  which  he  was  perfectly  civil,  and  only  too 
deferential  to  Colville,  as  to  an  older  man.  Since 
his  return,  Mrs.  Bo  wen  had  come  back  to  her  salon. 
She  looked  haggard  ;  but  she  did  what  she  could  to 
look  otherwise.  She  was  always  polite  to  Colville, 
and  she  was  politely  cordial  with  the  clergyman. 
Sometimes  Colville  saw  her  driving  out  with  him 
and  Effie;  they  appeared  to  make  excursions,  and 
he  had  an  impression,  very  obscure,  that  Mrs. 
Bowen  lent  the  young  clergyman  money;  that  he 
was  a  superstition  of  hers,  and  she  a  patron  of  his ; 

304 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  305 

he  must  have  been  ten  years  younger  than  she; 
not  more  than  twenty-five. 

The  first  Sunday  after  his  return,  Colville  walked 
home  with  Mr.  Waters  from  hearing  a  sermon  of 
Mr.  Morton's,  which  they  agreed  was  rather  well 
judged,  and  simply  and  fitly  expressed. 

"  And  he  spoke  with  the  authority  of  the  priest," 
said  the  old  minister.  "  His  Church  alone  of  all 
the  Protestant  Churches  has  preserved  that  to  its 
ministers.  Sometimes  I  have  thought  it  was  a 
great  thing." 

"  Not  always  ?  "  asked  Colville,  with  a  smile. 

"  These  things  are  matters  of  mood  rather  than 
conviction  with  me,"  returned  Mr.  Waters.  "  Once 
they  affected  me  very  deeply ;  but  now  I  shall  so 
soon  know  all  about  it  that  they  don't  move  me. 
But  at  times  I  think  that  if  I  were  to  live  my  life 
over  again,  I  would  prefer  to  be  of  some  formal, 
some  inflexibly  ritualised,  religion.  At  solemnities 
— weddings  and  funerals — I  have  been  impressed 
with  the  advantage  of  the  Anglican  rite  :  it  is  the 
Church  speaking  to  and  for  humanity — or  seems 
so,"  he  added,  with  cheerful  indifference.  "  Some- 
thing in  its  favour,"  he  continued,  after  a  while,  "  is 
the  influence  that  every  ritualised  faith  has  with 
women.  If  they  apprehend  those  mysteries  more 
subtly  than  we,  such  a  preference  of  theirs  must 
mean  a  good  deal.  Yes;  the  other  Protestant 
systems  are  men's  systems.  Women  must  have 
form.  They  don't  care  for  freedom." 

"  They  appear  to  like  the  formalist  too,  as  well  as 
u 


306  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

the  form,"  said  Colville,  with  scorn  not  obviously 
necessary. 

"  Oh  yes ;  they  must  have  everything  in  the 
concrete,"  said  the  old  gentleman  cheerfully. 

"  I  wonder  where  Mr.  Morton  met  Mrs.  Bowen 
first,"  said  Colville. 

"  Here,  I  think.  I  believe  he  had  letters  to  her. 
Before  you  came  I  used  often  to  meet  him  at  her 
house.  I  think  she  has  helped  him  with  money  at 
times." 

"  Isn't  that  rather  an  unpleasant  idea  1 " 

"  Yes ;  it 's  disagreeable.  And  it  places  the  minis- 
try in  a  dependent  attitude^.  But  under  our  system 
it 's  unavoidable.  Young  men  devoting  themselves 
to  the  ministry  frequently  receive  gifts  of  money." 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  cried  Colville. 

"  They  don't  feel  it  as  others  would.  I  didn't 
myself.  Even  at  present  I  may  be  said  to  be  living 
on  charity.  But  sometimes  I  have  fancied  that  in 
Mr.  Morton's  case  there  might  be  peculiarly  mitigat- 
ing circumstances.." 

"  What  do  you  mean  1 " 

"  When  I  met  him  first  at  Mrs.  Bowen's  I  used  to 
think  that  it  was  Miss  Graham  in  whom  he  was 
interested " 

"  I  can  assure  you,"  interrupted  Colville,  "  that 
she  was  never  interested  in  him." 

"  Oh  no ;  I  didn't  suppose  that,"  returned  the 
old  man  tranquilly.  "  And  I  've  since  had  reason 
to  revise  my  opinion.  I  think  he  is  interested 
in  Mrs.  Bowen." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  307 

"  Mrs.  Bowen  !  And  you  think  that  would  be  a 
mitigating  circumstance  in  his  acceptance  of  money 
from  her1?  If  he  had  the  spirit  of  a  man  at 
all,  it  would  make  it  all  the  more  revolting." 

"  Oh  no,  oh  no,"  softly  pleaded  Mr.  Waters. 
"  We  must  not  look  at  these  things  too  romanti- 
cally. He  probably  reasons  that  she  would  give 
him  all  her  money  if  they  were  married." 

"  But  he  has  no  right  to  reason  in  that  way,"  re- 
torted Colville,  with  heat.  "  They  are  not  married  ; 
it's  ignoble  and  unmanly  for  him  to  count  upon  it. 
It 's  preposterous.  She  must  be  ten  years  older 
than  he." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  say  that  they're  to  be  married,"  Mr. 
Waters  replied.  "  But  these  disparities  of  age  fre- 
quently occur  in  marriage.  I  don't  like  them, 
though  sometimes  I  think  the  evil  is  less  when  it  is 
the  wife  who  is  the  elder.  We  look  at  youth  and 
age  in  a  gross,  material  way  too  often.  Women  re- 
main young  longer  than  men.  They  keep  their 
youthful  sympathies ;  an  old  woman  understands  a 
young  girl.  Do  you — or  do  I — understand  a  young 
man  ? " 

Colville  laughed  harshly.  "  It  isn't  quite  the  same 
thing,  Mr.  Waters.  But  yes;  I'll  admit,  for  the 
sake  of  argument,  that  I  don't  understand  young 
men.  I  '11  go  further,  and  say  that  I  don't  like  them ; 
I  'm  afraid  of  them.  And  you  wouldn't  think,"  he 
added  abruptly,  "  that  it  would  be  well  for  me  to 
marry  a  girl  twenty  years  younger  than  myself." 

The  old  man  glanced  up  at  him  with  innocent  sly- 


308  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

ness.  "  I  prefer  always  to  discuss  these  things  in 
an  impersonal  way." 

"  But  you  can't  discuss  them  impersonally  with 
me  ;  I  'm  engaged  to  Miss  Graham.  Ever  since  you 
first  found  me  here  after  I  told  you  I  was  going 
away  I  have  wished  to  tell  you  this,  and  this  seems 
as  good  a  time  as  any — or  as  bad."  The  defiance 
faded  from  his  voice,  which  dropped  to  a  note  of 
weary  sadness.  "  Yes,  we  're  engaged — or  shall  be, 
as  soon  as  she  can  hear  from  her  family.  I  wanted 
to  tell  you  because  it  seemed  somehow  your  due,  and 
because  I  fancied  you  had  a  friendly  interest  in  us 
both." 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  returned  Mr.  Waters.  "I 
wish  you  joy."  He  went  through  the  form  of  offer- 
ing his  hand  to  Colville,  who  pressed  it  with  anxious 
fervour. 

"I  confess,"  he  said,  "  that  I  feel  the  risks  of  the 
affair.  It 's  not  that  I  have  any  dread  for  my  own 
part ;  I  have  lived  my  life,  such  as  it  is.  But  the 
child  is  full  of  fancies  about  me  that  can't  be  fulfilled. 
She  dreams  of  restoring  my  youth  somehow,  of  re- 
trieving the  past  for  me,  of  avenging  me  at  her  own 
cost  for  an  unlucky  love  affair  that  I  had  here 
twenty  years  ago.  It 's  pretty  of  her,  but  it 's  ter- 
ribly pathetic — it 's  tragic.  I  know  very  well  that 
I'm  a  middle-aged  man,  and  that  there's  no  more 
youth  for  me.  I  'm  getting  grey,  and  I  'm  getting 
fat ;  I  wouldn't  be  young  if  I  could  ;  it 's  a  bore.  I 
suppose  I  could  keep  up  an  illusion  of  youthfulness 
for  five  or  six  years  more ;  and  then  if  I  could  be 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  309 

quietly  chloroformed  out  of  the  way,  perhaps  it 
wouldn't  have  been  so  very  bad." 

"I  have  always  thought,"  said  Mr.  Waters 
dreamily,  "that  a  good  deal  might  be  said  for 
abbreviating  hopeless  suffering.  I  have  known  some 
very  good  people  advocate  its  practice  by  science." 

"Yes,"  answered  Colville.  "Perhaps  I've  pre- 
sented that  point  too  prominently.  What  I  wished 
you  to  understand  was  that  I  don't  care  for  myself ; 
that  I  consider  only  the  happiness  of  this  young  girl 
that 's  somehow — I  hardly  know  how — been  put  in 
my  keeping.  I  haven't  forgotten  the  talks  that 
we  've  had  heretofore  on  this  subject,  and  it  would 
be  affectation  and  bad  taste  in  me  to  ignore  them. 
Don't  be  troubled  at  anything  you  've  said ;  it  was 
probably  true,  and  I  'm  sure  it  was  sincere.  Some- 
times I  think  that  the  kindest — the  least  cruel — 
thing  I  could  do  would  be  to  break  with  her,  to  leave 
her.  But  I  know  that  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the 
kind ;  I  shall  drift.  The  child  is  very  dear  to  me. 
She  has  great  and  noble  qualities  ;  she 's  supremely 
unselfish ;  she  loves  me  through  her  mistaken  pity, 
and  because  she  thinks  she  can  sacrifice  herself  to 
me.  But  she  can't.  Everything  is  against  that ;  she 
doesn't  know  how,  and  there  is  no  reason  why.  I 
don't  express  it  very  well.  I  think  nobody  clearly 
understands  it  but  Mrs.  Bowen,  and  I  've  somehow 
alienated  her." 

He  became  aware  that  his  self-abnegation  was 
taking  the  character  of  self-pity,  and  he  stopped. 

Mr.  Waters  seemed  to  be  giving  the  subject  serious 


310  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

attention  in  the  silence  that  ensued.  "  There  is  this 
to  be  remembered,"  he  began,  "  which  we  don't  con- 
sider in  our  mere  speculations  upon  any  phase  of 
human  affairs  ;  and  that  is  the  wonderful  degree  of 
amelioration  that  any  given  difficulty  finds  in  the 
realisation.  It  is  the  anticipation,  not  the  experi- 
ence, that  is  the  trial.  In  a  case  of  this  kind,  facts 
of  temperament,  of  mere  association,  of  union,  work 
unexpected  mitigations  ;  they  not  only  alleviate,  they 
allay.  You  say  that  she  cherishes  an  illusion  con- 
cerning you  :  well,  with  women,  nothing  is  so  inde- 
structible as  an  illusion.  Give  them  any  chance  at 
all,  and  all  the  forces  of  their  nature  combine  to  pre- 
serve it.  And  if,  as  you  say,  she  is  so  dear  to  you, 
that  in  itself  is  almost  sufficient.  I  can  well  under- 
stand your  misgivings,  springing  as  they  do  from  a 
sensitive  conscience ;  but  we  may  reasonably  hope 
that  they  are  exaggerated.  Very  probably  there  will 
not  be  the  rapture  for  her  that  there  would  be  if — if 
you  were  younger ;  but  the  chances  of  final  happi- 
ness are  great — yes,  very  considerable.  She  will 
learn  to  appreciate  what  is  really  best  in  you,  and 
you  already  understand  her.  Your  love  for  her  is 
the  key  to  the  future.  Without  that,  of  course " 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  interrupted  Colville  hastily. 
Every  touch  of  this  comforter's  hand  had  been  a 
sting;  and  he  parted  with  him  in  that  feeling  of 
utter  friendlessness  involving  a  man  who  has  taken 
counsel  upon  the  confession  of  half  his  trouble. 

Something  in  Mrs.  Bowen's  manner  when  he  met 
her  next  made  him  think  that  perhaps  Imogene  had 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  311 

been  telling  her  of  the  sympathy  he  had  expressed 
for  her  ill-health.  It  was  in  the  evening,  and 
Imogene  and  Mr.  Morton  were  looking  over  a  copy 
of  The  Marble  Faun,  which  he  had  illustrated  with 
photographs  at  Rome.  Imogene  asked  Colville  to 
look  at  it  too,  but  he  said  he  would  examine  it 
later ;  he  had  his  opinion  of  people  who  illustrated 
The  Marble  Faun  with  photographs ;  it  surprised 
him  that  she  seemed  to  find  something  novel  and 
brilliant  in  the  idea. 

Effie  Bo  wen  looked  round  where  she  was  kneeling 
on  a  chair  beside  the  couple  with  the  book,  and  see- 
ing Colville  wandering  neglectedly  about  before  he 
placed  himself,  she  jumped  down  and  ran  and  caught 
his  hand. 

"  Well,  what  now  ? "  he  asked,  with  a  dim  smile, 
as  she  began  to  pull  him  toward  the  sofa.  When 
he  should  be  expelled  from  Palazzo  Pinti  he  would 
really  miss  the  worship  of  that  little  thing.  He 
knew  that  her  impulse  had  been  to  console  him  for 
his  exclusion  from  the  pleasures  that  Imogene  and 
Mr.  Morton  were  enjoying. 

"  Nothing.  Just  talk,"  she  said,  making  him  fast 
in  a  corner  of  the  sofa  by  crouching  tight  against 
him. 

""What  about1?  About  which  is  the  pleasantest 
season  ?  " 

"  Oh  no  ;  we  Ve  talked  about  that  so  often.  Be- 
sides, of  course  you  'd  say  spring,  now  that  it 's 
coming  on  so  nicely." 

"  Do   you   think   I  'm    so    changeable    as    that  1 


312  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Haven't  I  always  said  winter  when  this  question  of 
the  seasons  was  up  1  And  I  say  it  now.  Shan't 
you  be  awfully  sorry  when  you  can't  have  a  pleasant 
little  fire  on  the  hearth  like  this  any  more  ] " 

"  Yes ;  I  know.  But  it 's  very  nice  having  the 
flowers,  too.  The  grass  was  all  full  of  daisies  to-day 
— perfectly  powdered  with  them." 

"To-day?     Where?" 

"  At  the  Cascine.  And  in  under  the  trees  there 
were  millions  of  violets  and  crow's-feet.  Mr.  Morton 
helped  me  to  get  them  for  mamma  and  Imogene. 
And  we  stayed  so  long  that  when  we  drove  home 
the  daisies  had  all  shut  up,  and  the  little  pink  leaves 
outside  made  it  look  like  a  field  of  red  clover.  Are 
you  never  going  there  any  more  ? " 

Mrs.  Bowen  came  in.  From  the  fact  that  there 
was  no  greeting  between  her  and  Mr.  Morton,  Col- 
ville  inferred  that  she  was  returning  to  the  room 
after  having  already  been  there.  She  stood  a 
moment,  with  a  little  uncertainty,  when  she  had 
shaken  hands  with  him,  and  then  dropped  upon 
the  sofa  beyond  Effie.  The  little  girl  ran  one  hand 
through  Colville's  arm,  and  the  other  through  her 
mother's,  and  gripped  them  fast.  "  Now  I  have  got 
you  both,"  she  triumphed,  and  smiled  first  into  her 
face,  and  then  into  his. 

"Be  quiet,  Effie,"  said  her  mother,  but  she  sub- 
mitted. 

"  I  hope  you  're  better  for  your  drive  to-day,  Mrs. 
Bowen.  Effie  has  been  telling  me  about  it." 

"  We  stayed  out  a  long  time.     Yes,  I  think  the 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  313 

air  did  me  good ;  but  I  'm  not  an  invalid,  you 
know." 

"Oh  no/" 

"  I  Jm  feeling  a  little  fagged.  And  the  weather 
was  tempting.  I  suppose  you  Ve  been  taking  one  of 
your  long  walks." 

"  No,  1 7ve  scarcely  stirred  out.  I  usually  feel  like 
going  to  meet  the  spring  a  little  more  than  half-way ; 
but  this  year  I  don't,  somehow." 

"A  good  many  people  are  feeling  rather  languid, 
I  believe,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen. 

"I  hope  you'll  get  away  from  Florence,"  said 
Colville. 

"Oh,"  she  returned,  with  a  faint  flush,  "I'm 
afraid  Imogene  exaggerated  that  a  little."  She 
added,  "You  are  very  good." 

She  was  treating  him  more  kindly  than  she  had 
ever  done  since  that  Sunday  afternoon  when  he  came 
in  with  Imogene  to  say  that  he  was  going  to  stay. 
It  might  be  merely  because  she  had  worn  out  her 
mood  of  severity,  as  people  do,  returning  in  good- 
humour  to  those  with  whom  they  were  offended, 
merely  through  the  reconciling  force  of  time.  She 
did  not  look  at  him,  but  this  was  better  than  meet- 
ing his  eye  with  that  interceptive  glance.  A  strange 
peace  touched  his  heart.  Imogene  and  the  young 
clergyman  at  the  table  across  the  room  were  intent 
on  the  book  still ;  he  was  explaining  and  expatiat- 
ing, and  she  listening.  Colville  saw  that  he  had  a 
fine  head,  and  an  intelligent,  handsome",  gentle  face. 
When  he  turned  again  to  Mrs.  Bowen  it  was  with 


314  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

the  illusion  that  she  had  been  saying  something  ; 
but  she  was,  in  fact,  sitting  mute,  and  her  face, 
with  its  bright  colour,  showed  pathetically  thin. 

"  I  should  imagine  that  Venice  would  be  good  for 
you,"  he  said. 

"It's  still  very  harsh  there,  I  hear.  No;  when 
we  leave  Florence,  I  think  we  will  go  to  Switzer- 
land." 

"Oh,  not  to  Madame  Schebres's,"  pleaded  the 
child,  turning  upon  her. 

"No,  not  to  Madame  Schebres,"  consented  the 
mother.  She  continued,  addressing  Colville  :  "  I  was 
thinking  of  Lausanne.  Do  you  know  Lausanne 
at  all  T' 

"  Only  from  Gibbon's  report.  It 's  hardly  up  to 
date." 

"  I  thought  of  taking  a  house  there  for  the 
summer,"  said  Mrs.  Bo  wen,  playing  with  Effie's 
fingers.  "  It 's  pleasant  by  the  lake,  I  suppose." 

"  It 's  lovely  by  the  lake  ! "  cried  the  child.  "  Oh, 
do  go,  mamma !  I  could  get  a  boat  and  learn  to 
row.  Here  you  can't  row,  the  Arno's  so  swift." 

"  The  air  would  bring  you  up,"  said  Colville  to 
Mrs.  Bowen.  "  Switzerland 's  the  only  country  where 
you  're  perfectly  sure  of  waking  new  every  morning." 

This  idea  interested  the  child.  "  Waking  new  ! " 
she  repeated. 

"  Yes ;  perfectly  made  over.  You  wake  up  another 
person.  Shouldn't  you  think  that  would  be  nice  ? " 

"No." 

"  Well,  I  shouldn't,  in  your  place.     But  in  mine, 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  315 

I  much  prefer  to  wake  up  another  person.  Only 
it 's  pretty  hard  on  the  other  person." 

"  How  queer  you  are  !  "  The  child  set  her  teeth 
for  fondness  of  him,  and  seizing  his  cheeks  between 
her  hands,  squeezed  them  hard,  admiring  the  effect 
upon  his  features,  which  in  some  respects  was  not 
advantageous. 

"  Effie ! "  cried  her  mother  sternly ;  and  she 
dropped  to  her  place  again,  and  laid  hold  of  Col- 
ville's  arm  for  protection.  "  You  are  really  very 
rude.  I  shall  send  you  to  bed." 

"  Oh  no,  don't,  Mrs.  Bowen,"  he  begged.  "  I  'm 
responsible  for  these  violences.  Effie  used  to  be  a 
very  well  behaved  child  before  she  began  playing 
with  me.  It 's  all  my  fault." 

They  remained  talking  on  the  sofa  together,  while 
Imogene  and  Mr.  Morton  continued  to  interest 
themselves  in  the  book.  From  time  to  time  she 
looked  over  at  them,  and  then  turned  again  to  the 
young  clergyman,  who,  when  he  had  closed  the 
book,  rested  his  hands  on  its  top  and  began  to  give 
an  animated  account  of  something,  conjecturably 
his  sojourn  in  Rome. 

In  a  low  voice,  and  with  pauses  adjusted  to  the 
occasional  silences  of  the  young  people  across  the 
room,  Mrs.  Bowen  told  Colville  how  Mr.  Morton 
was  introduced  to  her  by  an  old  friend  who  was 
greatly  interested  in  him.  She  said,  frankly,  that 
she  had  been  able  to  be  of  use  to  him,  and  that  he 
was  now  going  back  to  America  very  soon ;  it  was 
as  if  she  were  privy  to  the  conjecture  that  had  come 


316  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

to  the  surface  in  his  talk  with  Mr.  Waters,  and 
wished  him  to  understand  exactly  how  matters  stood 
with  the  young  clergyman  and  herself.  Colville, 
indeed,  began  to  be  more  tolerant  of  him ;  he  suc- 
ceeded in  praising  the  sermon  he  had  heard  him 
preach. 

"  Oh,  he  has  talent,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen. 

They  fell  into  the  old,  almost  domestic  strain, 
from  which  she  broke  at  times  with  an  effort,  but 
returning  as  if  helplessly  to  it.  He  had  the  gift 
of  knowing  how  not  to  take  an  advantage  with 
women ;  that  sense  of  unconstraint  in  them  fought 
in  his  favour ;  when  Erne  dropped  her  head  wearily 
against  his  arm,  her  mother  even  laughed  in  send- 
ing her  off  to  bed;  she  had  hitherto  been  serious. 
Imogene  said  she  would  go  to  see  her  tucked  in,  and 
that  sent  the  clergyman  to  say  good-night  to  Mrs. 
Bowen,  and  to  put  an  end  to  Colville's  audience. 

In  these  days,  when  Colville  came  every  night  to 
Palazzo  Pinti,  he  got  back  the  tone  he  had  lost  in 
the  past  fortnight.  He  thought  that  it  was  the 
complete  immunity  from  his  late  pleasures,  and  the 
regular  and  sufficient  sleep,  which  had  set  him 
firmly  on  his  feet  again,  but  he  did  not  inquire  very 
closely.  Imogene  went  two  or  three  times,  after 
she  had  declared  she  would  go  no  more,  from  the 
necessity  women  feel  of  blunting  the  edge  of  com- 
ment; but  Colville  profited  instantly  and  fully  by 
the  release  from  the  parties  which  she  offered  him. 
He  did  not  go  even  to  afternoon  tea  drinkings ;  the 
"  days "  of  the  different  ladies,  which  he  had  been 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  317 

so  diligent  to  observe,  knew  him  no  more.  At  the 
hours  when  society  assembled  in  this  house  or  that 
and  inquired  for  him,  or  wondered  about  him,  he 
was  commonly  taking  a  nap,  and  he  was  punctually 
in  bed  every  night  at  eleven,  after  his  return  from 
Mrs.  Bowen's. 

He  believed,  of  course,  that  he  went  there  because 
he  now  no  longer  met  Imogene  elsewhere,  and  he 
found  the  house  pleasanter  than  it  had  ever  been 
since  the  veglione.  Mrs.  Bowen's  relenting  was  not 
continuous,  however.  There  were  times  that  seemed 
to  be  times  of  question  and  of  struggle  with  her, 
when  she  vacillated  between  the  old  cordiality  and 
the  later  alienation ;  when  she  went  beyond  the 
former,  or  lapsed  into  moods  colder  and  more  re- 
pellent than  the  latter.  It  would  have  been  difficult 
to  mark  the  moment  when  these  struggles  ceased 
altogether,  and  an  evening  passed  in  unbroken  kind- 
ness between  them.  But  afterwards  Colville  could 
remember  an  emotion  of  grateful  surprise  at  a  subtle 
word  or  action  of  hers  in  which  she  appeared  to 
throw  all  restraint — scruple  or  rancour,  whichever 
it  might  be — to  the  winds,  and  become  perfectly  his 
friend  again.  It  must  have  been  by  compliance  with 
some  wish  or  assent  to  some  opinion  of  his ;  what 
he  knew  was  that  he  was  not  only  permitted,  he 
was  invited,  to  feel  himself  the  most  favoured  guest. 
The  charming  smile,  so  small  and  sweet,  so  very  near 
to  bitterness,  came  back  to  her  lips,  the  deeply  fringed 
eyelids  were  lifted  to  let  the  sunny  eyes  stream  upon 
him.  She  did,  now,  whatever  he  asked  her.  She 


318  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

consulted  his  taste  and  judgment  on  many  points ; 
she  consented  to  resume,  when  she  should  be  a  little 
stronger,  their  visits  to  the  churches  and  galleries  : 
it  would  be  a  shame  to  go  away  from  Florence  with- 
out knowing  them  thoroughly.  It  came  to  her  ask- 
ing him  to  drive  with  her  and  Imogene  in  the  Cas- 
cine  ;  and  when  Imogene  made  some  excuse  not  to 
go,  Mrs.  Bowen  did  not  postpone  the  drive,  but  took 
Colville  and  Effie. 

They  drove  quite  down  to  the  end  of  the  Cascine, 
and  got  out  there  to  admire  the  gay  monument,  with 
the  painted  bust,  of  the  poor  young  Indian  prince 
who  died  in  Florence.  They  strolled  all  about,  talk- 
ing of  the  old  times  in  the  Cascine,  twenty  years 
before ;  and  walking  up  the  road  beside  the  canal, 
while  the  carriage  slowly  followed,  they  stopped  to 
enjoy  the  peasants  lying  asleep  in  the  grass  on  the 
other  bank.  Colville  and  Effie  gathered  wild- 
flowers,  and  piled  them  in  her  mother's  lap  when 
she  remounted  to  the  carriage  and  drove  along  while 
they  made  excursions  into  the  little  dingles  beside 
the  road.  Some  people  who  overtook  them  in  these 
sylvan  pleasures  reported  the  fact  at  a  reception  to 
which  they  were  going,  and  Mrs.  Amsden,  whose 
mind  had  been  gradually  clearing  under  the  simul- 
taneous withdrawal  of  Imogene  and  Colville  from 
society,  professed  herself  again  as  thickly  clouded  as 
a  weather-glass  before  a  storm.  She  appealed  to  the 
sympathy  of  others  against  this  hardship. 

Mrs.  Bowen  took  Colville  home  io  dinner ;  Mr. 
Morton  was  coming,  she  said,  and  he  must  come  too. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  319 

At  table  the  young  clergyman  made  her  his  compli- 
ment on  her  look  of  health,  and  she  said,  Yes ;  she 
had  been  driving,  and  she  believed  that  she  needed 
nothing  but  to  be  in  the  air  a  little  more,  as  she 
very  well  could,  now  the  spring  weather  was  really 
coming.  She  said  that  they  had  been  talking  all 
winter  of  going  to  Fiesole,  where  Imogene  had  never 
been  yet;  and  upon  comparison  it  appeared  that 
none  of  them  had  yet  been  to  Fiesole  except  her- 
self. Then  they  must  all  go  together,  she  said ; 
the  carriage  would  hold  four  very  comfortably. 

"  Ah  !  that  leaves  me  out,"  said  Colville,  who  had 
caught  sight  of  Effie's  fallen  countenance. 

"  Oh  no.     How  is  that  1     It  leaves  Effie  out." 

"  It 's  the  same  thing.  But  I  might  ride,  and  Effie 
might  give  me  her  hand  to  hold  over  the  side  of 
the  carriage  ;  that  would  sustain  me." 

"  We  could  take  her  between  us,  Mrs.  Bowen," 
suggested  Imogene.  "  The  back  seat  is  wide." 

"  Then  the  party  is  made  up,"  said  Colville,  "  and 
Effie  hasn't  demeaned  herself  by  asking  to  go  where 
she  wasn't  invited." 

The  child  turned  inquiringly  toward  her  mother, 
who  met  her  with  an  indulgent  smile,  which  became 
a.  little  flush  of  grateful  appreciation  when  it  reached 
Colville;  but  Mrs.  Bowen  ignored  Imogene  in  the 
matter  altogether. 

The  evening  passed  delightfully.  Mr.  Morton  had 
another  book  which  he  had  brought  to  show  Imogene, 
and  Mrs.  Bowen  sat  a  long  time  at  the  piano,  striking 
this  air  and  that  of  the  songs  which  she  used  to 


320  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

sing  when  she  was  a  girl :  Colville  was  trying  to 
recall  them.  When  he  and  Imogene  were  left 
alone  for  their  adieux,  they  approached  each  other 
in  an  estrangement  through  which  each  tried  to 
break. 

"  Why  don't  you  scold  me  1 "  she  asked.  "  I  have 
neglected  you  the  whole  evening." 

"  How  have  you  neglected  me  ?  " 

"  How  ?     Ah  !  if  you  don't  know— 

"  No.  I  dare  say  I  must  be  very  stupid.  I  saw 
you  talking  with  Mr.  Morton,  and  you  seemed  in- 
terested. I  thought  I  'd  better  not  intrude." 

She  seemed  iincertain  of  his  intention,  and  then 
satisfied  of  its  simplicity. 

"  Isn't  it  pleasant  to  have  Mrs.  Bowen  in  the  old 
mood  again  1  "  he  asked. 

"  Is  she  in  the  old  mood  1 " 

"Why,  yes.  Haven't  you  noticed  how  cordial 
she  is  1 

"I  thought  she  was  rather  colder  than  usual." 

11  Colder  ! "  The  chill  of  the  idea  penetrated  even 
through  the  density  of  Colville's  selfish  content.  A 
very  complex  emotion,  which  took  itself  for  indigna- 
tion, throbbed  from  his  heart.  "  Is  she  cold  with 
you,  Imogene  ? " 

"  Oh,  if  you  saw  nothing " 

"  No ;  and  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken.  She 
never  speaks  of  you  without  praising  you." 

"  Does  she  speak  of  me  1 "  asked  the  girl,  with 
her  honest  eyes  wide  open  upon  him. 

'"Why,  no,"  Colville  acknowledged.     "Come  to 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  321 

reflect,  it 's  I  who  speak  of  you.  But  how — how  is 
she  cold  with  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  it  Js  a  delusion  of  mine.  Perhaps 
I  'm  cold  with  her." 

"  Then  don't  be  so,  my  dear  !  Be  sure  that  she 's 
your  friend — true  and  good.  Good  night." 

He  caught  the  girl  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her 
tenderly.  She  drew  away,  and  stood  a  moment 
with  her  repellent  fingers  on  his  breast. 

"  Is  it  all  for  me  1  "  she  asked. 

"  For  the  whole  obliging  and  amiable  world,"  he 
answered  gaily. 


XIX. 

THE  next  time  Colville  came  lie  found  himself 
alone  with  Imogene,  who  asked  him  what  he  had 
been  doing  all  day. 

"Oh,  living  along  till  evening.  What  have 
you?" 

She  did  not  answer  at  once,  nor  praise  his  speech 
for  the  devotion  implied  in  it.  After  a  while  she 
said:  "Do  you  believe  in  courses  of  reading?  Mr. 
Morton  has  taken  up  a  course  of  reading  in  Italian 
poetry.  He  intends  to  master  it." 

"Does  he?" 

"  Yes.  Do  you  think  something  of  the  kind  would 
be  good  for  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  if  you  thirst  for  conquest.  But  I  should 
prefer  to  rest  on  my  laurels  if  I  were  you." 

Imogene  did  not  smile.  "Mr.  Morton  thinks  I 
should  enjoy  a  course  of  Kingsley.  He  says  he's 
very  earnest." 

"  Oh,  immensely.  But  aren't  you  earnest  enough 
already,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  I  'm  too  earnest  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  should  say  you  were  just  right." 

322 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  323 

"  You  know  better  than  that.  I  wish  you  would 
criticise  me  sometimes." 

"Oh,  I  'd  rather  not." 

'Why?  Don't  you  see  anything  to  criticise  in 
me  ?  Are  you  satisfied  with  me  in  every  way  1 
You  ought  to  think  You  ought  to  think  now.  Do 
you  think  that  I  am  doing  right  in  all  respects  1  Am 
I  all  that  I  could  be  to  you,  and  to  you  alone  1  If  I 
am  wrong  in  the  least  thing,  criticise  me,  and  I  will 
try  to  be  better." 

"  Oh,  you  might  criticise  back,  and  I  shouldn't 
like  that." 

"  Then  you  don't  approve  of  a  course  of  Kingsley  ?  " 
asked  the  girl. 

"Does  that  follow?  But  if  you  're  going  in  for 
earnestness,  why  don't  you  take  up  a  course  of  Car- 


"Do  you  think  that  would  be  better  than 
Kingsley  ?  " 

"Not  a  bit.  But  Carlyle's  so  earnest  that  he 
can't  talk  straight." 

"I  can't  make  out  what  you  mean.  Wouldn't 
you  like  me  to  improve  1  " 

"Not  much,"  laughed  Colville.  "If  you  did,  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  do.  I  should  have  to 
begin  to  improve  too,  and  I  'm  very  comfortable  as 
I  am." 

"  I  should  wish  to  do  it  to  —  to  be  more  worthy  of 
you,"  grieved  the  girl,  as  if  deeply  disappointed  at 
his  frivolous  behaviour. 

He  could  not  help  laughing,  but  he  was  sorry,  and 


324  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

would  have  taken  her  hand ;  she  kept  it  from  him, 
and  removed  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  sofa.  Ap- 
parently, however,  her  ideal  did  not  admit  of  open 
pique,  and  she  went  on  trying  to  talk  seriously  with 
him. 

"You  think,  don't  you,  that  we  oughtn't  to  let  a 
day  pass  without  storing  away  some  thought — sug- 
gestion  " 

"  Oh,  there 's  no  hurry,"  he  said  lazily.  "  Life  is 
rather  a  long  affair — if  you  live.  There  appears  to 
be  plenty  of  time,  though  people  say  not,  and  I 
think  it  would  be  rather  odious  to  make  every  day 
of  use.  Let  a  few  of  them  go  by  without  doing  any- 
thing for  you !  And  as  for  reading,  why  not  read 
when  you  're  hungry,  just  as  you  eat  1  Shouldn't 
you  hate  to  take  up  a  course  of  roast  beef,  or  a  course 
of  turkey  ? " 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Imogene.  "I  shall  not 
begin  Kingsley." 

"  Yes,  do  it.  I  dare  say  Mr.  Morton's  quite  right. 
He  will  look  at  these  things  more  from  your  own 
point  of  view.  All  the  Kingsley  novels  are  in  the 
Tauchnitz.  By  all  means  do  what  he  says." 

"  I  will  do  what  you  say." 

"Oh,  but  I  say  nothing." 

"Then  I  will  do  nothing." 

Colville  laughed  at  this  too,  and  soon  after  the 
clergyman  appeared.  Imogene  met  him  so  coldly 
that  Colville  felt  obliged  to  make  him  some  amends 
by  a  greater  show  of  cordiality  than  he  felt.  But 
he  was  glad  of  the  effort,  for  he  began  to  like  him 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  325 

as  he  talked  to  him;  it  was  easy  for  him  to  like 
people ;  the  young  man  showed  sense  and  judg- 
ment, and  if  he  was  a  little  academic  in  his  mind 
and  manners,  Colville  tolerantly  reflected  that  some 
people  seemed  to  be  born  so,  and  that  he  was  pro- 
bably not  artificial,  as  he  had  once  imagined  from 
the  ecclesiastical  scrupulosity  of  his  dress. 

Imogene  ebbed  away  to  the  piano  in  the  corner  of 
the  room,  and  struck  some  chords  on  it.  At  each 
stroke  the  young  clergyman,  whose  eyes  had  wan- 
dered a  little  toward  her  from  the  first,  seemed  to 
vibrate  in  response.  The  conversation  became  in- 
coherent before  Mrs.  Bowen  joined  them.  Then,  by 
a  series  of  illogical  processes,  the  clergyman  was 
standing  beside  Imogene  at  the  piano,  and  Mrs. 
Bowen  was  sitting  beside  Colville  on  the  sofa. 

"  Isn't  there  to  be  any  Eflfie,  to-night  1 "  he  asked. 

"  No.  She  has  been  up  too  much  of  late.  And 
I  wished  to  speak  with  you — about  Imogene." 

"  Yes,"  said  Colville,  not  very  eagerly.  At  that 
moment  he  could  have  chosen  another  topic. 

"  It  is  time  that  her  mother  should  have  got  my 
letter.  In  less  than  a  fortnight  we  ought  to  have 
an  answer." 

"WelH"  said  Colville,  with  a  strange  constric- 
tion of  the  heart. 

"Her  mother  is  a  person  of  very  strong  char- 
acter ;  her  husband  is  absorbed  in  business,  and 
defers  to  her  in  everything." 

"  It  isn't  an  uncommon  American  situation,"  said 
Colville,  relieving  his  tension  by  this  excursion. 


326  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Mrs.  Bowen  ignored  it.  "  I  don't  know  how  she 
may  look  at  the  affair.  She  may  give  her  assent  at 
once,  or  she  may  decide  that  nothing  has  taken  place 
till — she  sees  you." 

"  I  could  hardly  blame  her  for  that,"  he  answered 
submissively. 

"  It  isn't  a  question  of  that,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen. 
"  It 's  a  question  of — others.  Mr.  Morton  was  here 
before  you  came,  and  I  know  he  was  interested  in 
Imogene — I  am  certain  of  it.  He  has  come  back, 
and  he  sees  no  reason  why  he  should  not  renew  his 
attentions." 

«  No— o—o,"  faltered  Colville. 

"  I  wish  you  to  realise  the  fact." 

"  But  what  would  you " 

"  I  told  you,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  with  a  full  return 
of  that  severity  whose  recent  absence  Colville  had 
found  so  comfortable,  "  that  I  can't  advise  or  sug- 
gest anything  at  all." 

He  was  long  and  miserably  silent.  At  last,  "  Did 
you  ever  think,"  he  asked,  "  did  you  ever  suppose — 
that  is  to  say,  did  you  ever  suspect  that — she — that 
Imogene  was — at  all  interested  in  him  1 " 

"  I  think  she  was — at  one  time,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen 
promptly. 

Colville  sighed,  with  a  wandering  disposition  to 
whistle. 

"But  that  is  nothing,"  she  went  on.  "People 
have  many  passing  fancies.  The  question  is,  what 
are  you  going  to  do  now  ?  I  want  to  know,  as  Mr. 
Morton's  friend." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  327 

"  Ah,  I  wish  you  wanted  to  know  as  my  friend, 
Mrs.  Bowen  ! "  A  sudden  thought  flashed  upon 
him.  "  Why  shouldn't  I  go  away  from  Florence 
till  Imogene  hears  from  her  mother  1  That  seemed 
to  me  right  in  the  first  place.  There  is  no  tie  that 
binds  her  to  me.  I  hold  her  to  nothing.  If  she 
finds  in  my  absence  that  she  likes  this  young  man 

better "     An  expression  of  Mrs.   Bowen's  face 

stopped  him.  He  perceived  that  he  had  said  some- 
thing very  shocking  to  her ;  he  perceived  that  the 
thing  was  shocking  in  itself,  but  it  was  not  that 
which  he  cared  for.  "I  don't  mean  that  I  won't 
hold  myself  true  to  her  as  long  as  she  will.  I  re- 
cognise my  responsibility  fully.  I  know  that  I  am 
answerable  for. all  this,  and  that  no  one  else  is;  and 
I  am  ready  to  bear  any  penalty.  But  what  I  can't 
bear  is  that  you  should  misunderstand  me,  that  you 

should I  have  been  so  wretched   ever  since 

you  first  began  to  blame  me  for  my  part  in  this,  and 
so  happy  this  past  fortnight  that  I  can't — I  won't — 
go  back  to  that  state  of  things.  No ;  you  have  no 
right  to  relent  toward  me,  and  then  fling  me  off  as 
you  have  tried  to  do  to-night !  I  have  some  feeling 
too — some  rights.  You  shall  receive  me  as  a  friend, 
or  not  at  all !  How  can  I  live  if  you " 

She  had  been  making  little  efforts  as  if  to  rise  ; 
now  she  forced  herself  to  her  feet,  and  ran  from 
the  room. 

The  young  people  looked  up  from  their  music ; 
some  wave  of  the  sensation  had  spread  to  them,  but 
seeing  Colville  remain  seated,  they  went  on  with 


328  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

their  playing  till  he  rose.  Then  Imogene  called  out, 
"  Isn't  Mrs.  Bo  wen  coming  back  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  think  not,"  answered  Colville 
stupidly,  standing  where  he  had  risen. 

She  hastened  questioning  toward  him.  "What 
is  the  matter  1  Isn't  she  well  1 " 

Mr.  Morton's  face  expressed  a  polite  share  in 
her  anxiety. 

"  Oh  yes ;  quite,  I  believe,"  Colville  replied. 

"  She  heard  Effie  call,  I  suppose,"  suggested  the 
girl. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  think  so ;  that  is — yes.  I  must 
be  going.  Good  night." 

He  took  her  hand  and  went  away,  leaving  the 
clergyman  still  there ;  but  he  lingered  only  for  a  re- 
port from  Mrs.  Bowen,  which  Imogene  hurried  to  get. 
She  sent  word  that  she  would  join  them  presently. 
But  Mr.  Morton  said  that  it  was  late  already,  and  he 
would  beg  Miss  Graham  to  say  good-night  for  him. 
When  Mrs.  Bowen  returned  Imogene  was  alone. 

She  did  not  seem  surprised  or  concerned  at  that. 
"  Imogene,  I  have  been  talking  to  Mr.  Colville 
about  you  and  Mr.  Morton." 

The  girl  started  and  turned  pale. 

"It  is  almost  time  to  hear  from  your  mother,  and 
she  may  consent  to  your  engagement.  Then  you 
must  be  prepared  to  act." 

"Act!" 

"  To  make  it  known.  Matters  can't  go  on  as 
they  have  been  going.  I  told  Mr.  Colville  that  Mr. 
Morton  ought  to  know  at  once." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  329 

"  Why  ought  he  to  know  ? "  asked  Imogene, 
doubtless  with  that  impulse  to  temporise  which  is 
natural  to  the  human  soul  in  questions  of  right  and 
interest.  She  sank  into  the  chair  beside  which  she 
had  been  standing, 

"  If  your  mother  consents,  you  will  feel  bound  to 
Mr.  Colville  1 " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl. 

"  And  if  she  refuses  1 " 

"  He  has  my  word.  I  will  keep  my  word  to  him," 
replied  Imogene  huskily.  "  Nothing  shall  make  me 
break  it." 

"  Very  well,  then  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bowen. 
"  We  need  not  wait  for  your  mother's  answer.  Mr. 
Morton  ought  to  know,  and  he  ought  to  know  at 
once.  Don't  try  to  blind  yourself,  Imogene,  to  what 
you  see  as  plainly  as  I  do.  He  is  in  love  with  you." 

"  Oh,"  moaned  the  girl. 

"Yes;  you  can't  deny  it.  And  it's  cruel,  it's 
treacherous,  to  let  him  go  on  thinking  that  you  are 
free." 

"  I  will  never  see  him  again." 

"  Ah  !  that  isn't  enough.  He  has  a  claim  to  know 
why.  I  will  not  let  him  be  treated  so." 

They  were  both  silent.  Then,  "  What  did  Mr. 
Colville  say  1 "  asked  Imogene. 

"  He  ?  I  don't  know  that  he  said  anything. 
He "  Mrs.  Bowen  stopped. 

Imogene  rose  from  her  chair. 

"  I  will  not  let  him  tell  Mr.  Morton.  It  would  be 
too  indelicate." 


330  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  And  shall  you  let  it  go  on  so  ? " 

"  No.     I  will  tell  him  myself." 

"  How  will  you  tell  him  ?  " 

"I  will  tell  him  if  he  speaks  to  me." 

11  You  will  let  it  come  to  that  1 " 

"  There  is  no  other  way.  I  shall  suffer  more  than 
he." 

"  But  you  will  deserve  to  suffer,  and  your  suffer- 
ing will  not  help  him." 

Imogene  trembled  into  her  chair  again. 

"  I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen  bitterly,  "  how  it  will  be 
at  last.  It  will  be  as  it  has  been  from  the  first."  She 
began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room,  mechanically 
putting  the  chairs  in  place,  and  removing  the  disorder 
in  which  the  occupancy  of  several  people  leaves  a 
room  at  the  end  of  an  evening.  She  closed  the 
piano,  which  Imogene  had  forgot  to  shut,  with  a 
clash  that  jarred  the  strings  from  their  silence. 
"  But  I  will  do  it,  and  I  wonder " 

"  You  will  speak  to  him  ?  *  faltered  the  girl. 

"  Yes  ! "  returned  Mrs.  Bowen  vehemently,  and 
arresting  herself  in  her  rapid  movements.  "  It  won't 
do  for  you  to  tell  him,  and  you  won't  let  Mr.  Col- 
ville." 

"  No,  I  can't,"  said  Imogene,  slowly  shaking  her 
head.  "  But  I  will  discourage  him  ;  I  will  not  see  him 
any  more."  Mrs.  Bowen  silently  confronted  her.  "  I 
will  not  see  any  one  now  till  I  have  heard  from  home." 

"  And  how  will  that  help  1  He  must  have  some 
explanation,  and  I  will  have  to  make  it.  What  shall 
it  be  ? " 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  331 

Imogene  did  not  answer.  She  said  :  "I  will  not 
have  any  one  know  what  is  between  me  and  Mr. 
Colville  till  I  have  heard  from  home.  If  they  try 
to  refuse,  then  it  will  be  for  him  to  take  me  against 
their  will.  But  if  he  doesn't  choose  to  do  that,  then 
he  shall  be  free,  and  I  won't  have  him  humiliated  a 
second  time  before  the  world.  This  time  he  shall  be 
the  one  to  reject.  And  I  don't  care  who  suffers. 
The  more  I  prize  the  person,  the  gladder  I  shall  be  ; 
and  if  I  could  suffer  before  everybody  I  would.  If 
people  ever  find  it  out,  I  will  tell  them  that  it  was 
he  who  broke  it  off."  She  rose  again  from  her  chair, 
and  stood  flushed  and  thrilling  with  the  notion  of 
her  self-sacrifice.  Out  of  the  tortuous  complexity  of 
the  situation  she  had  evolved  this  brief  triumph,  in 
which  she  rejoiced  as  if  it  were  enduring  success. 
But  she  suddenly  fell  from  it  in  the  dust.  "  Oh, 
what  can  I  do  for  him  1  How  can  I  make  him  feel 
more  and  .more  that  I  would  give  up  anything, 
everything,  for  him  !  It 's  because  he  asks  nothing 
and  wants  nothing  that  it 's  so  hard  !  If  I  could  see 
that  he  was  unhappy,  as  I  did  once  !  If  I  could  see 

that  he  was  at  all  different  since — since Oh,  what 

I  dread  is  this  smooth  tranquillity  !  If  our  lives  could 
only  be  stormy  and  full  of  cares  and  anxieties  and 
troubles  that  I  could  take  on  myself,  then,  then  I 
shouldn't  be  afraid  of  the  future  !  But  I  'm  afraid 
they  won't  be  so— no,  I  'm  afraid  that  they  will  be 
easy  and  quiet,  and  then  what  shall  I  do  ]  0  Mrs. 
Bowen,  do  you  think  he  cares  for  me  1 " 

Mrs  Bowen  turned  white  ;  she  did  not  speak. 


332  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

The  girl  wrung  her  hands.  "  Sometimes  it  seems 
as  if  he  didn't — as  if  I  had  forced  myself  on  him 
through  a  mistake,  and  he  had  taken  me  to  save  me 
from  the  shame  of  knowing  that  I  had  made  a  mis- 
take. Do  you  think  that  is  true  ?  If  you  can 

only  tell  me  that  it  isn't Or,  no  !  If  it  is  true, 

tell  me  that  !  That  would  be  real  mercy." 

The  other  trembled,  as  if  physically  beaten  upon 
by  this  appeal.  But  she  gathered  herself  together 
rigidly.  "  How  can  I  answer  you  such  a  thing  as 
that  1  I  mustn't  listen  to  you ;  you  mustn't  ask  me." 
She  turned  and  left  the  girl  standing  still  in  her 
attitude  of  imploring.  But  in  her  own  room,  where 
she  locked  herself  in,  sobs  mingled  with  the  laughter 
which  broke  crazily  from  her  lips  as  she  removed 
this  ribbon  and  that  jewel,  and  pulled  the  bracelets 
from  her  wrists.  A  man  would  have  plunged  from 
the  house  and  walked  the  night  away  ;  a  woman 
must  wear  it  out  in  her  bed. 


XX. 


IN  the  morning  Mrs.  Bowen  received  a  note  from 
her  banker  covering  a  despatch  by  cable  from  America. 
It  was  from  Imogene's  mother  ;  it  acknowledged  the 
letters  they  had  written,  and  announced  that  she 
sailed  that  day  for  Liverpool.  It  was  dated  at  New 
York,  and  it  was  to  be  inferred  that  after  perhaps 
writing  in  answer  to  their  letters,  she  had  suddenly 
made  up  her  mind  to  come  out. 

"Yes,  that  is  it,"  said  Imogene,  to  whom  Mrs. 
Bowen  hastened  with  the  despatch.  "  Why  should 
she  have  telegraphed  to  you  ?  "  she  asked  coldly,  but 
with  a  latent  fire  of  resentment  in  her  tone. 

"You  must  ask  her  when  she  comes,"  returned 
Mrs.  Bowen,  with  all  her  gentleness.  "It  won't  be 
long  now." 

They  looked  as  if  they  had  neither  of  them  slept ; 
but  the  girl's  vigil  seemed  to  have  made  her  wild 
and  fierce,  like  some  bird  that  has  beat  itself  all 
night  against  its  cage,  and  still  from  time  to  time 
feebly  strikes  the  bars  with  its  wings.  Mrs.  Bowen 
was  simply  worn  to  apathy. 

"  What  shall  you  do  about  this  ?  "  she  asked. 

333 


334  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  Do  about  it  1  Oh,  I  will  think.  I  will  try  not 
to  trouble  you." 

"  Imogene  ! " 

"  I  shall  have  to  tell  Mr.  Colville.  But  I  don't 
know  that  I  shall  tell  him  at  once.  Give  me  the  de- 
spatch, please."  She  possessed  herself  of  it  greedily, 
offensively.  "I  shall  ask  you  not  to  speak  of  it." 

"  I  will  do  whatever  you  wish." 

"Thank  you." 

Mrs.  Bowen  left  the  room,  but  she  turned  imme- 
diately to  re-open  the  door  she  had  closed  behind 
her. 

"  We  were  to  have  gone  to  Fiesole  to-morrow," 
she  said  inquiringly. 

"  We  can  still  go  if  the  day  is  fine,"  returned  the 
girl.  "  Nothing  is  changed.  I  wish  very  much  to 
go.  Couldn't  we  go  to-day  1 "  she  added,  with  eager 
defiance. 

"  It 's  too  late  to-day,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen  quietly. 
"I  will  write  to  remind  the  gentlemen." 

"  Thank  you.     I  wish  we  could  have  gone  to-day." 

"  You  can  have  the  carriage  if  you  wish  to  drive 
anywhere,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen. 

"  I  will  take  Effie  to  see  Mrs.  Amsden."  But 
Imogene  changed  her  mind,  and  went  to  call  upon 
two  Misses  Guicciardi,  the  result  of  an  international 
marriage,  whom  Mrs.  Bowen  did  not  like  very  well. 
Imogene  drove  with  them  to  the  Cascine,  where  they 
bowed  to  a  numerous  military  acquaintance,  and 
they  asked  her  if  Mrs.  Bowen  would  let  her  join 
them  in  a  theatre  party  that  evening  :  they  were  New- 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  335 

Yorkers  by  birth,  and  it  was  to  be  a  theatre  party  in 
the  New  York  style  ;  they  were  to  be  chaperoned  by 
a  young  married  lady ;  two  young  men  cousins  of 
theirs,  just  out  from  America,  had  taken  the  box. 

When  Imogene  returned  home  she  told  Mrs.  Bowen 
that  she  had  accepted  this  invitation.  Mrs.  Bowen 
said  nothing,  but  when  one  of  the  young  men  came 
up  to  hand  Imogene  down  to  the  carriage,  which  was 
waiting  with  the  others  at  the  gate,  she  could  not 
have  shown  a  greater  tolerance  of  his  second-rate 
New  Yorkiness  if  she  had  been  a  Boston  dowager 
offering  him  the  scrupulous  hospitalities  of  her 
city. 

Imogene  came  in  at  midnight;  she  hummed  an 
air  of  the  opera  as  she  took  off  her  wraps  and  orna- 
ments in  her  room,  and  this  in  the  quiet  of  the  hour 
had  a  terrible,  almost  profane  effect :  it  was  as  if 
some  other  kind  of  girl  had  whistled.  She  showed 
the  same  nonchalance  at  breakfast,  where  she  was 
prompt,  and  answered  Mrs.  Bowen's  inquiries  about 
her  pleasure  the  night  before  with  a  liveliness  that 
ignored  the  polite  resolution  that  prompted  them. 

Mr.  Morton  was  the  first  to  arrive,  and  if  his  dis- 
couragement began  at  once,  the  first  steps  masked 
themselves  in  a  reckless  welcome,  which  seemed  to 
fill  him  with  joy,  and  Mrs.  Bowen  with  silent  per- 
plexity. The  girl  ran  on  about  her  evening  at  the 
opera,  and  about  the  weather,  and  the  excursion 
they  were  going  to  make ;  and  after  an  apparently 
needless  ado  over  the  bouquet  which  he  brought 
her,  together  with  one  for  Mrs.  Bowen,  she  put  it 


336  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

into  her  belt,  and  made  Colville  notice  it  when  he 
came  :  he  had  not  thought  to  bring  flowers. 

He  turned  from  her  hilarity  with  anxious  ques- 
tion to  Mrs.  Bowen,  who  did  not  meet  his  eye,  and 
who  snubbed  Effie  when  the  child  found  occasion  to 
whisper  :  "  /  think  Imogene  is  acting  very  strangely, 
for  her ;  don't  you,  mamma  1  It  seems  as  if  going 
with  those  Guicciardi  girls  just  once  had  spoiled  her." 

"  Don't  make  remarks  about  people,  Effie,"  said 
her  mother  sharply.  "  It  isn't  nice  in  little  girls, 
and  I  don't  want  you  to  do  it.  You  talk  too  much 
lately." 

Effie  turned  grieving  away  from  this  rejection, 
and  her  face  did  not  light  up  even  at  the  whimsical 
sympathy  in  Colville's  face,  who  saw  that  she  had 
met  a  check  of  some  sort ;  he  had  to  take  her  on  his 
knee  and  coax  and  kiss  her  before  her  wounded  feel- 
ings were  visibly  healed.  He  put  her  down  with  a 
sighing  wish  that  some  one  could  take  him  up  and 
soothe  his  troubled  sensibilities  too,  and  kept  her 
hand  in  his  while  he  sat  waiting  for  the  last  of  those 
last  moments  in  which  the  hurrying  delays  of  ladies 
preparing  for  an  excursion  seem  never  to  end. 

When  they  were  ready  to  get  into  the  carriage, 
the  usual  contest  of  self-sacrifice  arose,  which  Imo- 
gene terminated  by  mounting  to  the  front  seat  •  Mr. 
Morton  hastened  to  take  the  seat  beside  her,  and 
Colville  was  left  to  sit  with  Effie  and  her  mother. 
"  You  old  people  will  be  safer  back  there,"  said 
Imogene.  It  was  a  little  joke  which  she  addressed 
to  the  child,  but  a  gleam  from  her  eye  as  she  turned 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  337 

to  speak  to  the  young  man  at  her  side  visited  Col- 
ville  in  desperate  defiance.  He  wondered  what  she 
was  about  in  that  allusion  to  an  idea  which  she  had 
shrunk  from  so  sensitively  hitherto.  But  he  found 
himself  in  a  situation  which  he  could  not  penetrate 
at  any  point.  When  he  spoke  with  Mrs.  Bowen,  it 
was  with  a  dark  undercurrent  of  conjecture  as  to 
how  and  when  she  expected  him  to  tell  Mr.  Morton 
of  his  relation  to  Imogene,  or  whether  she  still  ex- 
pected him  to  do  it ;  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  the 
face  of  the  young  man,  he  despaired  as  to  the  terms 
in  which  he  should  put  the  fact ;  any  form  in  which 
he  tacitly  dramatised  it  remained  very  embarrassing, 
for  he  felt  bound  to  say  that  while  he  held  himself 
promised  in  the  matter,  he  did  not  allow  her  to 
feel  herself  so. 

A  sky  of  American  blueness  and  vastness,  a 
mellow  sun,  and  a  delicate  breeze  did  all  that  these 
things  could  for  them, "as  they  began  the  long, 
devious  climb  of  the  hills  crowned  by  the  ancient 
Etruscan  city.  At  first  they  were  all  in  the  con- 
straint of  their  own  and  one  another's  moocls,  known 
or  imagined,  and  no  talk  began  till  the  young  clergy- 
man turned  to  Imogene  and  asked,  after  a  long  look 
at  the  smiling  landscape,  "  What  sort  of  weather  do 
you  suppose  they  are  having  at  Buffalo  to-day  ? " 

"  At  Buffalo  1 "  she  repeated,  as  if  the  place  had 
only  a  dim  existence  in  her  remotest  consciousness. 
"  Oh  !  The  ice  isn't  near  out  of  the  lake  yet.  You 
can't  count  on  it  before  the  first  of  May." 

"  And   the  first  of  May  comes  sooner  or  later, 

Y 


338  INDIAN   SUMMER. 

according  to  the  season,"  said  Colville.  "  I  remember 
coming  on  once  in  the  middle  of  the  month,  and  the 
river  was  so  full  of  ice  between  Niagara  Falls  and 
Buffalo  that  I  had  to  shut  the  car  window  that  I  'd 
kept  open  all  the  way  through  Southern  Canada. 
But  we  have  very  little  of  that  local  weather  at 
home  ;  our  weather  is  as  democratic  and  continental 
as  our  political  constitution.  Here  it's  March  or 
May  any  time  from  September  till  June,  according 
as  there 's  snow  on  the  mountains  or  not." 

The  young  man  smiled.  "But  don't  you  like," 
he  asked  with  deference,  "  this  slow,  orderly  advance 
of  the  Italian  spring,  where  the  flowers  seem  to 
come  out  one  by  one,  and  every  blossom  has  its 
appointed  time  ? " 

"  Oh  yes,  it 's  very  well  in  its  way ;  but  I  prefer 
the  rush  of  the  American  spring ;  no  thought  of 
mild  weather  this  morning ;  a  warm,  gusty  rain  to- 
morrow night  ;  day  after  to-morrow  a  burst  of 
blossoms  and  flowers  and  young  leaves  and  birds. 
I  don't  know  whether  we  were  made  for  our  climate 
or  our  climate  was  made  for  us,  but  its  impatience 
and  lavishness  seem  to  answer  some  inner  demand 
of  our  go-ahead  souls.  This  happens  to  be  the  week 
of  the  peach  blossoms  here,  and  you  see  their  pink 
everywhere  to-day,  and  you  don't  see  anything  else 
in  the  blossom  line.  But  amagine  the  American 
spring  abandoning  a  whole  week  of  her  precious 
time  to  the  exclusive  use  of  peach  blossoms !  She 
wouldn't  do  it ;  she 's  got  too  many  other  things  on 
hand." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  339 

Effie  had  stretched  out  over  Colville's  lap,  and 
with  her  elbow  sunk  deep  in  his  knee,  was  resting 
her  chin  in  her  hand  and  taking  the  facts  of  the 
landscape  thoroughly  in.  "  Do  they  have  just  a 
week  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  an  hour  more  or  less,"  said  Colville.  "  If 
they  found  an  almond  blossom  hanging  round  any- 
where after  their  time  came,  they  would  make  an 
awful  row  ;  and  if  any  lazy  little  peach-blow  hadn't 
got  out  by  the  time  their  week  was  up,  it  would 
have  to  stay  in  till  next  year;  the  pear  blossoms 
wouldn't  let  it  come  out." 

"  Wouldn't  they  ?  "  murmured  the  child,  in  dreamy 
sympathy  with  this  belated  peach-blow. 

"  Well,  that 's  what  people  say.  In  America  it 
would  be  allowed  to  come  out  any  time.  It 's  a  free 
country." 

Mrs.  Bowen  offered  to  draw  Effie  back  to  a  posture 
of  more  decorum,  but  Colville  put  his  arm  round  the 
little  girl.  "  Oh,  let  her  stay  !  It  doesn't  incom- 
mode me,  and'  she  must  be  getting  such  a  novel 
effect  of  the  landscape." 

The  mother  fell  back  into  her  former  attitude  of 
jaded  passivity.  He  wondered  whether  she  had 
changed  her  mind  about  having  him  speak  to  Mr. 
Morton ;  her  quiescence  might  well  have  been  indif- 
ference ;  one  could  have  said,  knowing  the  whole 
situation,  that  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  let 
things  take  their  course,  and  struggle  with  them  no 
longer. 

He  could  not  believe  that  she  felt  content  with 


340  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

him ;  she  must  feel  far  otherwise  ;  and  he  took  re- 
fuge, as  he  had  the  power  of  doing,  from  the  dis- 
comfort of  his  own  thoughts  in  jesting  with  the 
child,  and  mocking  her  with  this  extravagance  and 
that;  the  discomfort  then  became  merely  a  dull 
ache  that  insisted  upon  itself  at  intervals,  like  a 
grumbling  tooth. 

The  prospect  was  full  of  that  mingled  wildness 
and  subordination  that  gives  its  supreme  charm  to 
the  Italian  landscape  ;  and  without  elements  of  great 
variety,  it  combined  them  in  infinite  picturesque- 
ness.  There  were  olive  orchards  and  vineyards, 
and  again  vineyards  and  olive  orchards.  Closer  to 
the  farm-houses  and  cottages  there  were  peaches  and 
other  fruit  trees  and  kitchen-gardens ;  broad  ribbons 
of  grain  waved  between  the  ranks  of  trees ;  around 
the  white  villas  the  spires  of  the  cypresses  pierced 
the  blue  air.  Now  and  then  they  came  to  a  villa 
with  weather-beaten  statues  strutting  about  its  par- 
terres. A  mild,  pleasant  heat  brooded  upon  the 
fields  and  roofs,  and  the  city,  dropping  lower  and 
lower  as  they  mounted,  softened  and  blended  its 
towers  and  monuments  in  a  sombre  mass  shot  with 
gleams  of  white. 

Colville  spoke  to  Imogene,  who  withdrew  her 
eyes  from  it  with  a  sigh,  after  long  brooding  upon 
the  scene.  "  You  can  do  nothing  with  it,  I  see." 

"  With  what  ? " 

"  The  landscape.  It 's  too  full  of  every  possible 
interest.  What  a  history  is  written  all  over  it, 
public  and  private  !  If  you  don't  take  it  simply  like 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  341 

any  other  landscape,  it  becomes  an  oppression.  It 's 
well  that  tourists  come  to  Italy  so  ignorant,  and 
keep  so.  Otherwise  they  couldn't  live  to  get  home 
again;  the  past  would  crush  them." 

Imogene  scrutinised  him  as  if  to  extract  some 
personal  meaning  from  his  words,  and  then  turned 
her  head  away.  The  clergyman  addressed  him  with 
what  was  like  a  respectful  toleration  of  the  drolleries 
of  a  gifted  but  eccentric  man,  the  flavour  of  whose 
talk  he  was  beginning  to  taste.  . 

"  You  don't  really  mean  that  one  shouldn't  come 
to  Italy  as  well  informed  as  possible  1 " 

"  Well,  I  did,"  said  Colville,  "  but  I  don't." 

The  young  man  pondered  this,  and  Imogene 
started  up  with  an  air  of  rescuing  them  from  each 
other — as  if  she  would  not  let  Mr.  Morton  think 
Colville  trivial  or  Colville  consider  the  clergyman 
stupid,  but  would  do  what  she  could  to  take  their 
minds  off  the  whole  question.  Perhaps  she  was  not 
very  clear  as  to  how  this  was  to  be  done  ;  at  any 
rate  she  did  not  speak,  and  Mrs.  Bpwen  came  to 
her  support,  from  whatever  motive  of  her  own.  It 
might  have  been  from  a  sense  of  the  injustice  of 
letting  Mr.  Morton  suffer  from  the  complications 
that  involved  herself  and  the  others.  The  affair 
had  been  going  very  hitchily  ever  since  they  started, 
with  the  burden  of  the  conversation  left  to  the  two 
men  and  that  helpless  girl ;  if  it  were  not  to  be  alto- 
gether a  failure  she  must  interfere." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Gratiano  when  you  were  in 
Venice  ? "  she  asked  Mr.  Morton. 


342  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  Is  he  one  of  their  new  water-colourists  ? "  re- 
turned the  young  man.  "  I  heard  they  had  quite  a 
school  there  now." 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  ignoring  her  failure  as 
well  as  she  could ;  "  he  was  a  famous  talker ;  he 
loved  to  speak  an  infinite  deal  of  nothing  more  than 
any  man  in  Venice." 

"  An  ancestor  of  mine,  Mr.  Morton,"  said  Colville; 
<;a  poor,  honest  man,  who  did  his  best  to  make  people 
forget  that  the  ladies  wero  silent.  Thank  you,  Mrs. 
Bowen,  for  mentioning  him.  I  wish  he  were  with 
us  to-day." 

The  young  man  laughed.  "  Oh,  in  the  Merchant 
of  Venice  I " 

"  No  other,"  said  Colville. 

"  I  confess,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen,  {<  that  I  am  rather 
stupid  this  morning.  T  suppose  it 's  the  softness  of 
the  air ;  it 's  been  harsh  and  irritating  so  long.  It 
makes  me  drowsy." 

"Don't  mind  us"  returned  Colville.  "We,  will 
call  you  at  important  points."  They  were  driving 
into  a  village  at  which  people  stop  sometimes  to 
admire  the  works  of  art  in  its  church.  Here,  for 

example,  is What  place  is  this  ?  "  he  asked  of 

the  coachman. 

"San  Domenico." 

"I  should  know  it  again  by  its  beggars."  Of  all 
ages  and  sexes  they  swarmed  round  the  carriage, 
which  the  driver  had  instinctively  slowed  to  oblige 
them,  and  thrust  forward  their  hands  and  hats. 
Colville  gave  Erne  his  small  change  to  distribute 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  343 

among  them,  at  sight  of  which  they  streamed  down 
the  street  from  every  direction.  Those  who  had 
received  brought  forward  the  halt  and  blind,  and 
did  not  scruple  to  propose  being  rewarded  for  this 
service.  At  the  same  time  they  did  not  mind  his 
laughing  in  their  faces  ;  they  laughed  too,  and 
went  off  content,  or  as  /nearly  so  as  beggars  ever 
are.  He  buttoned  up  his  pocket  as  they  drove  on 
more  rapidly.  "  I  am  the  only  person  of  no  prin- 
ciple— except  Effie — in  the  carriage,  and  yet  I  am 
at  this  moment  carrying  more  blessings  out  of  this 
village  than  I  shall  ever  know  what  to  do  with. 
Mrs.  Bowen,  I  know,  is  regarding  me  with  severe 
disapproval.  She  thinks  that  I  ought  to  have  sent 
the  beggars  of  San  Domenico  to  Florence,  where 
they  would  all  be  shut  up  in  the  Pia  Casa  di 
Bicovero,  and  taught  some  useful  occupation.  It 's 
terrible  in  Florence.  You  can  walk  through  Flor- 
ence now  and  have  no  appeal  made  to  your  better 
nature  that  is  not  made  at  the  appellant's  risk  of 
imprisonment.  When  I  was  there  before,  you  had 
opportunities  of  giving  at  every  turn." 

"  You  can  send  a  cheque  to  the  Pia  Casa,"  said 
Mrs.  Bowen. 

"Ah,  but  what  good  would  that  do  met  When 
I  give  I  want  the  pleasure  of  it ;  I  want  to  see  my 
beneficiary  cringe  under  my  bounty.  But  I  've  tried 
in  vain  to  convince  you  that  the  world  has  gone  wrong 
in  other  ways.  Do  you  remember  the  one-armed 
man  whom  we  used  to  give  to  on  the  Lung'  Arno  1 
That  persevering  sufferer  has  been  repeatedly  ar- 


344  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

rested  for  mendicancy,  and  obliged  to  pay  a  fine  out 
of  his  hard  earnings  to  escape  being  sent  to  your 
Pia  Casa." 

Mrs.  Bowen  smiled,  and  said,  Was  he  living  yet  ? 
in  a  pensive  tone  of  reminiscence.  She  was  even 
more  than  patient  of  Colville's  nonsense.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  the  light  under  her  eyelids  was  some- 
times a  grateful  light.  Confronting  Imogene  and 
the  young  man  whose  hopes  of  her  he  was  to  destroy 
at  the  first  opportunity,  the  lurid  moral  atmosphere 
which  he  breathed  seemed  threatening  to  become  a 
thing  apparent  to  sense,  and  to  be  about  to  blot  the 
landscape.  He  fought  it  back  as  best  he  could,  and 
kept  the  hovering  cloud  from  touching  the  earth  by 
incessant  effort.  At  times  he  looked  over  the  side 
of  the  carriage,  and  drew  secretly  a  long  breath  of 
fatigue.  It  began  to  be  borne  in  upon  him  that 
these  ladies  were  using  him  ill  in  leaving  him  the 
burden  of  their  entertainment.  He  became  angry, 
but  his  heart  softened,  and  he  forgave  them  again, 
for  he  conjectured  that  he  was  the  cause  of  the  cares 
that  kept  them  silent.  He  felt  certain  that  the 
affair  had  taken  some  new  turn.  He  wondered  if 
Mrs.  Bowen  had  told  Imogene  what  she  had  de- 
manded of  him.  But  he  could  only  conjecture  £nd 
wonder  in  the  dreary  undercurrent  of  thought  that 
flowed  evenly  and  darkly  on  with  the  talk  he  kept 
going.  He  made  the  most  he  could  of  the  varying 
views  of  Florence  which  the  turns  and  mounting 
levels  of  the  road  gave  him.  He  became  affection- 
ately grateful  to  the  young  clergyman  when  he  re- 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  345 

plied  promptly  and  fully,  and  took  an  interest  in 
the  objects  or  subjects  he  brought  up. 

Neither  Mrs.  Bowen  nor  Imogene  was  altogether 
silent.  The  one  helped  on  at  times  wearily,  and  the 
other  broke  at  times  from  her  abstraction.  Doubt- 
less the  girl  had  undertaken  too  much  in  insisting 
upon  a  party  of  pleasure  with  her  mind  full  of  so 
many  things,  and  doubtless  Mrs.  Bowen  was  sore 
with  a  rankling  resentment  at  her  insistence,  and 
vexed  at  herself  for  having  yielded  to  it.  If  at  her 
time  of  life  and  with  all  her  experience  of  it,  she 
could  not  rise  under  this  inner  load,  Imogene  must 
have  been  crushed  by  it. 

Her  starts  from  the  dreamy  oppression,  if  that 
were  what  kept  her  silent,  took  the  form  of  aggres- 
sion, when  she  disagreed  with  Colville  about  things 
he  was  saying,  or  attacked  him  for  this  or  that 
thing  which  he  had  said  in  times  past.  It  was  an 
unhappy  and  unamiable  self-assertion,  which  he  was 
not  able  to  compassionate  so  much  when  she  resisted 
or  defied  Mrs.  Bowen,  as  she  seemed  seeking  to  do 
at  every  point.  Perhaps  another  would  not  have 
felt  it  so ;  it  must  have  been  largely  in  his  conscious- 
ness ;  the  young  clergyman  seemed  not  to  see  any- 
thing in  these  bursts  but  the  indulgence  of  a  gay 
caprice,  though  his  laughing  at  them  did  not  alleviate 
the  effect  to  Colville,  who,  when  he  turned  to  Mrs. 
Bowen  for  her  alliance,  was  astonished  with  a 
prompt  snub,  unmistakable  to  himself,  however 
imperceptible  to  others. 

He  found  what  diversion  and  comfort  he  could  in 


346  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

the  party  of  children  who  beset  them  at  a  point  near 
the  town,  and  followed  the  carriage,  trying  to  sell 
them  various  light  and  useless  trifles  made  of  straw 
— fans,  baskets,  parasols,  and  the  like.  He  bought 
recklessly  of  them  and  gave  them  to  Erne,  whom  he 
assured,  without  the  applause  of  the  ladies,  and  with 
the  grave  question  of  the  young  clergyman,  that  the 
vendors  were  little  Etruscan  girls,  all  at  least  twenty- 
five  hundred  years  old.  "It's  very  hard  to  find  any 
Etruscans  under  .that  age ;  most  of  the  grown-up 
people  are  three  thousand." 

The  child  humoured  his  extravagance  with  the 
faith  in  fable  which  children  are  able  to  command, 
and  said,  "  Oh,  tell  me  about  them ! "  while  she 
pushed  up  closer  to  him,  and  began  to  admire  her 
presents,  holding  them  up  before  her,  and  dwelling 
fondly  upon  them  one  by  one. 

"  Oh,  there 's  very  little  to  tell,"  answered  Colville. 
"  They  're  mighty  close  people,  and  always  keep 
themselves  very  much  to  themselves.  But  wouldn't 
you  like  to  see  a  party  of  Etruscans  of  all  ages,  even 
down  to  little  babies  only  eleven  or  twelve  hundred 
years  old,  come  driving  into  an  American  town  1  It 
would  make  a  great  excitement,  wouldn't  it  1 " 

"  It  would  be  splendid." 

"Yes;  we  would  give  them  a  collation  in  the 
basement  of  the  City  Hall,  and  drive  them  out  to 
the  cemetery.  The  Americans  and  Etruscans  are 
very  much  alike  in  that — they  always  show  you 
their  tombs." 

"  Will  they  in  Fiesole  1 " 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  347 

"  How  you  always  like  to  burrow  into  the  past !  " 
interrupted  Imogene. 

"  Well,  it 's  rather  difficult  burrowing  into  the 
future,''  returned  Colville  defensively.  Accepting 
the  challenge,  he  added  :  "  Yes,  I  should  really  like 
to  meet  a  few  Etruscans  in  Fiesole  this  morning.  I 
should  feel  as  if  I  'd  got  amongst  my  contemporaries 
at  last;  they  would  understand  me." 

The  girl's  face  flushed.  "  Then  no  one  else  can 
understand  you  1 " 

"  Apparently  not  -  I  am  the  great  American 
incompris." 

"  I  'm  sorry  for  you,"  she  returned  feebly ;  and, 
in  fact,  sarcasm  was  not  her  strong  point. 

When  they  entered  the  town  they  found  the  Etrus- 
cans preoccupied  with  other  visitors,  whom  at  vari- 
ous points  in  the  quaint  little  piazza  they  surrounded 
in  dense  groups,  to  their  own  disadvantage  as  guides 
and  beggars  and  dealers  in  straw  goods.  One  of  the 
groups  reluctantly  dispersed  to  devote  itself  to  the 
new  arrivals,  and  these  then  perceived  that  it  was  a 
party  of  artists,  scattered  about  and  sketching,  which 
had  absorbed  the  attention  of  the  population.  Col- 
ville went  to  the  restaurant  to  order  lunch,  leaving 
the  ladies  to  the  care  of  Mr.  Morton.  When  he 
came  back  he  found  the  carriage  surrounded  by  the 
artists,  who  had  turned  out  to  be  the  Inglehart 
boys.  They  had  walked  up  to  Fiesole  the  afternoon 
before,  and  they  had  been  sketching  there  all  the 
morning.  With  the  artist's  indifference  to  the  con- 
ventional objects  of  interest,  they  were  still  ignorant 


348  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

of  what  ought  to  be  seen  in  Fiesole  by  tourists,  and 
they  accepted  Colville's  proposition  to  be  of  his  party 
in  going  the  rounds  of  the  Ciithedral,  the  Museum, 
and  the  view  from  that  point  of  the  wall  called  the 
Belvedere.  They  found  that  they  had  been  at  the 
Belvedere  before  without  knowing  that  it  merited 
particular  recognition,  and  some  of  them  had  made 
sketches  from  it — of  bits  of  architecture  and  land- 
scape, and  of  figure  amongst  the  women  with  straw 
fans  and  baskets  to  sell,  who  thronged  round  the 
whole  party  again,  and  interrupted  the  prospect.  In 
the  church  they  differed  amongst  themselves  as  to 
the  best  bits  for  study,  and  Colville  listened  in 
whimsical  despair  to  the  enthusiasm  of  their  likings 
and  dislikings.  All  that  was  so  far  from  him  now  ; 
but  in  the  Museum,  which  had  only  a  thin  interest 
based  upon  a  small  collection  of  art  and  archaeology, 
he  suffered  a  real  affliction  in  the  presence  of  a  young 
Italian  couple,  who  were  probably  plighted  lovers. 
They  went  before  a  grey-haired  pair,  who  might 
have  been  the  girl's  father  and  mother,  and  they 
looked  at  none  of  the  objects,  though  they  regularly 
stopped  before  them  and  waited  till  their  guide  had 
said  his  say  about  them.  The  girl,  clinging  tight  to 
the  young  man's  arm,  knew  nothing  but  him  ;  her 
mouth  and  eyes  were  set  in  a  passionate  concentra- 
tion of  her  being  upon  him,  and  he  seemed  to  walk 
in  a  dream  of  her.  From  time  to  time  they  peered 
upon  each  other's  faces,  and  then  they  paused,  rapt 
and  indifferent  to  all  besides. 

The  young  painters  had  their  jokes  about  it ;  even 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  349 

Mr.  Morton  smiled,  and  Mrs.  Bowen  recognised  it. 
But  Imogene  did  not  smile  ;  she  regarded  the  lovers 
with  an  interest  in  them  scarcely  less  intense  than 
their  interest  in  each  other  ;  and  a  cold  perspiration 
of  question  broke  out  on  Colville's  forehead.  Was 
that  her  ideal  of  what  her  own  engagement  should 
be  ?  Had  she  expected  him  to  behave  in  that  way 
to  her,  and  to  accept  from  her  a  devotion  like  that 
girl's  ?  How  bitterly  he  must  have  disappointed  her  ! 
It  was  so  impossible  to  him  that  the  thought  of  it 
made  him  feel  that  he  must  break  all  ties  which 
bound  him  to  anything  like  it.  And  yet  he  reflected 
that  the  time  was  when  he  could  have  been  equal  to 
that,  and  even  more. 

After  lunch  the  painters  joined  them  again,  and 
they  all  went  together  to  visit  the  ruins  of  the  Roman 
theatre  and  the  stretch  o*f  Etruscan  wall  beyond  it. 
The  former  seems  older  than  the  latter,  whose  huge 
blocks  of  stone  lie  as  firmly  and  evenly  in  their 
courses  as  if  placed  there  a  year  ago  ;  the  turf  creeps 
to  the"  edge  at  top,  and  some  small  trees  nod  along 
the  crest  of  the  wall,  whose  ancient  face,  clean  and 
bare,  looks  sternly  out  over  a  vast  prospect,  now 
young  and  smiling  in  the  first  delight  of  spring. 
The  piety  or  interest  of  the  community,  which  guards 
the  entrance  to  the  theatre  by  a  fee  of  certain  cente- 
simi,  may  be  concerned  in  keeping  the  wall  free  from 
the  grass  and  vines  which  are  stealing  the  half-ex- 
cavated arena  back  to  forgetfulness  and  decay ;  but 
whatever  agency  it  was,  it  weakened  the  appeal  that 
the  wall  made  to  the  sympathy  of  the  spectators. 


350  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

They  could  do  nothing  with  it ;  the  artists  did  not 
take  their  sketch-blocks  from  their  pockets.  But  in 
the  theatre,  where  a  few  broken  columns  marked  the 
place  of  the  stage,  and  the  stone  benches  of  the 
auditorium  were  here  and  there  reached  by  a 
flight  of  uncovered  steps,  the  human  interest  re- 
turned. 

"  I  suspect  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  ruin's 
being  too  old,"  said  Colville.  "  Our  Etruscan  friends 
made  the  mistake  of  building  their  wall  several 
thousand  years  too  soon  for  our  purpose." 

"  Yes,"  consented  the  young  clergyman.  "  It 
seems  as  if  our  own  race  became  alienated  from  us 
through  the  mere  effect  of  time,  don't  you  think, 
sir  1  I  mean,  of  course,  terrestrially." 

The  artists  looked  uneasy,  as  if  they  had  not 
counted  upon  anything  of  this  kind,  and  they  began 
to  scatter  about  for  points  of  view.  Effie  got  her 
mother's  leave  to  run  up  and  down  one  of  the  stair- 
ways, if  she  would  not  fall.  Mrs.  Bo  wen  sat  down 
on  one  of  the  lower  steps,  and  Mr.  Morton  took  his 
place  respectfully  near  her. 

"  I  wonder  how  it  looks  from  the  top  1 "  Imogene 
asked  this  of  Colville,  with  more  meaning  than 
seemed  to  belong  to  the  question  properly. 

'•  There  is  nothing  like  going  to  see,"  he  suggested. 
He  helped  her  up,  giving  her  his  hand  from  one 
course  of  seats  to  another.  When  they  reached  the 
point  which  commanded  the  best  view  of  the  whole, 
she  sat  down,  and  he  sank  at  her  feet,  but  they  did 
not  speak  of  the  view. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  351 

"  Theodore,  I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  she 
said  abruptly.  "  I  have  heard  from  home." 

"  Yes  1 "  he  replied,  in  a  tone  in  which  he  did  his 
best  to  express  a  readiness  for  any  fate. 

"Mother  has  telegraphed.  She  is  coming  out. 
She  is  on  her  way  now.  She  will  be  here  very  soon." 

"  Colville  did  not  know  exactly  what  to  say  to 
these  passionately  consecutive  statements.  "Well  ?" 
he  said  at  last. 

"Well" — she  repeated  his  word — "what  do  you 
intend  to  do  ? " 

"  Intend  to  do  in  what  event  1  "  he  asked,  lifting 
his  eyes  for  the  first  time  to  the  eyes  which  he  felt 
burning  down  upon  him. 

"  If  she  should  refuse  1 " 

Again  he  could  not  command  an  instant  answer, 
but  when  it  came  it  was  a  fair  one.  "  It  isn't  for 
me  to  say  what  I  shall  do,"  he  replied  gravely. 
"  Or,  if  it  is,  I  can  only  say  that  I  will  do  whatever 
you  wish." 

"  Do  you  wish  nothing  ? " 

"  Nothing  but  your  happiness." 

"  Nothing  but  my  happiness  ! "  she  retorted. 
"  What  is  my  happiness  to  me  1  Have  I  ever  sought 
itt" 

"  I  can't  say,"  he  answered  ;  "  but  if  I  did  not 
think  you  would  find  it " 

"I  shall  find  it,  if  ever  I  find  it,  in  yours,"  she 
interrupted.  "  And  what  shall  you  do  if  my  mother 
will  not  consent  to  our  engagement  1 " 

The  experienced  and  sophisticated  man — for  that 


352  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

in  no  ill  way  was  what  Colville  was — felt  himself 
on  trial  for  his  honour  and  his  manhood  by  this 
simple  girl,  this  child.  He  could  not  endure  to  fall 
short  of  her  ideal  of  him  at  that  moment,  no  matter 
what  error  or  calamity  the  fulfilment  involved. 
"  If  you  feel  sure  that  you  love  me,  Imogene,  it  will 
make  no  difference  to  me  what  your  mother  says. 
I  would  be  glad  of  her  consent ;  I  should  hate  to  go 
counter  to  her  will ;  but  I  know  that  I  am  good 
enough  man  to  be  true  and  keep  you  all  my  life  the 
first  in  all  my  thoughts,  and  that 's  enough  for  me. 
But  if  you  have  any  fear,  any  doubt  of  yourself,  now 
is  the  time " 

Imogene  rose  to  her  feet  as  in  some  turmoil  of 
thought  or  emotion  that  would  not  suffer  her  to  re- 
main quiet. 

"  Oh,  keep  still ! "  "  Don't  get  up  yet ! "  "  Hold 
on  a  minute,  please  ! "  came  from  the  artists  in  dif- 
ferent parts  of  the  theatre,  and  half  a  dozen  implor- 
ing pencils  were  waved  in  the  air. 

"  They  are  sketching  you,"  said  Colville,  and  she 
sank  compliantly  into  her  seat  again. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  for  myself — no,"  she  said,  as  if 
there  had  been  no  interruption. 

"  Then  we  need  have  no  anxiety  in  meeting  your 
mother,"  said  Colville,  with  a  light  sigh,  after  a 
moment's  pause.  "  What  makes  you  think  she  will 
be  unfavourable  ? " 

"I  don't  think  that;  but  I  thought— I  didn't 
know  but " 

"  What  ? " 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  353 

"Nothing,  now."  Her  lips  were  quivering;  he 
could  see  her  struggle  for  self-control,  but  he  could 
not  see  it  unmoved.  • 

"  Poor  child  ! "  he  said,  putting  out  his  hand  to- 
ward her. 

"  Don't  take  my  hand ;  they  're  all  looking,"  she 
begged. 

He  forbore,  and  they  remained  silent  and  motion- 
less a  little  while,  before  she  had  recovered  herself 
sufficiently  to  speak  again. 

"  Then  we  are  promised  to  each  other,  whatever 
happens,"  she  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  And  we  will  never  speak  of  this  again.  But 
there  is  one  thing.  Did  Mrs.  Bo  wen  ask  you  to 
tell  Mr.  Morton  of  our  engagement  1 " 

"  She  said  that  I  ought  to  do  so." 

"  And  did  you  say  you  would  1 " 

"  I  don't  know.  But  I  suppose  I  ought  to  tell 
him." 

"  I  don't  wish  you  to  ! "  cried  the  girl. 

"  You  don't  wish  me  to  tell  him  ? " 

"  No ;  I  will  not  have  it ! " 

"  Oh,  very  well ;  it 's  much  easier  not.  But  it 
seems  to  me  that  it's  only  fair  to  him." 

"Did  you  think  of  that  yourself?"  she  demanded 
fiercely. 

"  No,"  returned  Colville,  with  sad  self-recognition. 
u  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  not  apt  to  think  of  the  comforts 
and  rights  of  other  people.  It  was  Mrs.  Bo  wen 
who  thought  of  it." 

z 


354  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  I  knew  it !  " 

"  But  I  must  confess  that  I  agreed  with  her, 
though  I  would  have  preferred  to  postpone  it  till  we 
heard  from  your  family."  He  was  thoughtfully 
silent  a  monnnt;  then  he  said,  "  But  if  their  deci- 
sion is  to  have  no  weight  with  us,  I  think  he  ought 
to  be  told  at  once." 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  am  flirting  with  him  ? " 

"  Imogene  !  "  exclaimed  Colville  reproachfully. 

"  That 's  what  you  imply;  that 's  what  she  implies." 

"You're  very  unjust  to  Mrs.  Bowen,  Imogene." 

"  Oh,  you  always  defend  her  !  It  isn't  the  first 
time  you  've  told  me  I  was  unjust  to  her." 

"  I  don't  mean  that  you  are  willingly  unjust,  or 
could  be  so,  to  any  living  creature,  least  of  all  to  her. 
But  I — we  —owe  her  so  much ;  she  has  been  so 
patient." 

.  "  What  do  we   owe   her  1      How   has  she   been 
patient  1 " 

"She  has  overcome  her  dislike  to  me." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  " 

"  And — and  I  feel  under  obligation  to  her  for — in 
a  thousand  little  ways ;  and  I  should  be  glad  to  feel 
that  we  were  acting  with  her  approval  j  I  should  like 
to  please  her." 

"  You  wish  to  tell  Mr.  Morton  1 " 

"I  think  I  ought." 

"  To  please  Mrs.  Bowen  !  Tell  him,  then  !  You 
always  cared  more  to  please  her  than  me.  Perhaps 
you  stayed  in  Florence  to  please  her  !>" 

She  rose  and  ran  down  the  broken  seats  and  ruined 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  355 

steps  so  recklessly  and  yet  so  sure-footedly  that  it 
seemed  more  like  a  flight  than  a  pace  to  the  place 
where  Mrs.  Bowen  and  Mr.  Morton  were  talking 
together. 

Colville  followed  as  he  could,  slowly  and  with  a 
heavy  heart.  A  good  thing  develops  itself  in  infi- 
nite and  unexpected  shapes  of  good ;  a  bad  thing 
into  manifold  and  astounding  evils.  This  mistake 
was  whirling  away  beyond  his  recall  in  hopeless 
mazes  of  error.  He  saw  this  generous  young  spirit 
betrayed  by  it  to  ignoble  and  unworthy  excess,  and 
he  knew  that  he  and  not  she  was  to  blame. 

He  was  helpless  to  approach  her,  to  speak  with 
her,  to  set  her  right,  great  as  the  need  of  that  was, 
and  he  could  see  that  she  avoided  him.  But  their 
relations  remained  outwardly  undisturbed.  The 
artists  brought  their  sketches  for  inspection  and 
comment,  and,  without  speaking  to  each  other,  he 
and  Imogene  discussed  them  with  the  rest. 

When  they  started  homeward  the  painters  said 
they  were  coming  a  little  way  with  them  for  a 
send-off,  and  then  going  back  to  spend  the  night  in 
Fiesole.  They  walked  beside  the  carriage,  talking 
with  Mrs,  Bowen  and  Imogene,  who  had  taken  their 
places,  with  Effie  between  them,  on  the  back  seat ; 
and  when  they  took  their  leave,  Colville  and  the 
young  clergyman,  who  had  politely  walked  with 
them,  continued  on  foot  a  little  further,  till  they 
came  to  the  place  where  the  highway  to  Florence 
divided  into  the  new  road  and  the  old.  At  this 
point  it  steeply  overtops  the  fields  on  one  side, 


356  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

which  is  shored  up  by  a  wall  some  ten  or  twelve 
feet  deep ;  and  here  round  a  sharp  turn  of  the  hill 
on  the  other  side  came  a  peasant  driving  a  herd  of 
the  black  pigs  of  the  country. 

Mrs.  Bowen's  horses  were,  perhaps,  pampered  be- 
yond the  habitual  resignation  of  Florentine  horses 
to  all  manner  of  natural  phenomena;  they  reared 
at  sight  of  the  sable  crew,  and  backing  violently  up- 
hill, set  the  carriage  across  the  road,  with  its  hind 
wheels  a  few  feet  from  the  brink  of  the  wall.  The 
coachman  sprang  from  his  seat,  the  ladies  and  the 
child  remained  in  theirs  as  if  paratysed. 

Colville  ran  forward  to  the  side  of  the  carriage. 
"  Jump,  Mrs.  Bo  wen  !  jump,  Effie  !  Imogene " 

The  mother  and  the  little  one  obeyed.  He  caught 
them  in  his  arms  and  set  them  down.  The  girl  sat 
still,  staring  at  him  with  reproachful,  with  disdain- 
ful eyes. 

He  leaped  forward  to  drag  her  out;  she  shrank 
away,  and  then  he  flew  to  help  the  coachman,  who 
had  the  maddened  horses  by  the  bit. 

"  Let  go  ! "  he  heard  the  young  clergyman  calling 
to  him  ;  "  she  's  safe  !  "  He  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Imogene,  whom  Mr.  Morton  had  pulled  from  the 
other  side  of  the  carriage.  He  struggled  to  free  his 
wrist  from  the  curb-bit  chain  of  the  horse,  through 
which  he  had  plunged  it  in  his  attempt  to  seize  the 
bridle.  The  wheels  of  the  carriage  went  over  the 
wall ;  he  felt  himself  whirled  into  the  air,  and  then 
swung  ruining  down  into  the  writhing  and  crashing 
heap  at  the  bottom  of  the  wall. 


XXL 

WHEN  Colville  came  to  himself  his  first  sensation 
was  delight  in  the  softness  and  smoothness  of  the 
turf  on  which  he  lay.  Then  the  strange  colour  of 
the  grass  commended  itself  to  his  notice,  and  pre- 
sently he  perceived  that  the  thing  under  his  head 
was  a  pillow,  and  that  he  was  in  bed.  He  was  sup- 
ported in  this  conclusion  by  the  opinion  of  the  young 
man  who  sat  watching  him  a  little  way  off,  and  who 
now  smiled  cheerfully  at  the  expression  in  the  eyes 
which  Colville  turned  inquiringly  upon  him. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  he  asked,  with  what  appeared  to 
him  very  unnecessary  feebleness  of  voice. 

The  young  man  begged  his  pardon  in  Italian,  and 
when  Colville  repeated  his  question  in  that  tongue, 
he  told  him  that  he  was  in  Palazzo  Pinti,  whither 
he  had  been  brought  from  the  scene  of  his  accident. 
He  added  that  Colville  must  not  talk  till  the  doctor 
had  seen  him  and  given  him  leave,  and  he  explained 
that  he  was  himself  a  nurse  from  the  hospital,  who 
had  been  taking  care  of  him. 

Colville  moved  his  head  and  felt  the  bandage 
upon  it ;  he  desisted  in  his  attempt  to  lift  his  right 

S57 


358  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

arm  to  it  before  the  attendant  could  interfere  in 
behalf  of  the  broken  limb.  He  recalled  dimly  and 
f ragmen tarily  long  histories  that  he  had  dreamed, 
but  he  forbore  to  ask  how  long  he  had  been  in  his 
present  case,  and  he  accepted  patiently  the  appari- 
tion of  the  doctor  and  other  persons  who  came  and 
went,  and  were  at  his  bedside  or  not  there,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  between  the  opening  and  closing  of 
an  eye.  As  the  days  passed  they  acquired  greater 
permanence  and  maintained  a  more  uninterrupted 
identity.  He  was  able  to  make  quite  sure  of  Mr. 
Morton  and  of  Mr.  Waters  ;  Mrs.  Bowen  came  in, 
leading  Effie,  and  this  gave  him  a  great  pleasure. 
Mrs.  Bowen  seemed  to  have  grown  younger  and 
better.  Imogene  was  not  among  the  phantoms  who 
visited  him  ;  and  he  accepted  her  absence  as  quies- 
cently as  he  accepted  the  presence  of  the  others. 
There  was  a  cheerfulness  in  those  who  came  that 
permitted  him  no  anxiety,  and  he  was  too  weak  to 
invite  it  by  any  conjecture.  He  consented  to  be 
spared  and  to  spare  himself  ;  and  there  were  some 
things  about  the  affair  which  gave  him  a  singular 
and  perhaps  not  wholly  sane  content.  One  of  these 
was  the  man  nurse  who  had  evidently  taken  care 
of  him  throughout.  He  celebrated,  whenever  he 
looked  at  this  capable  person,  his  escape  from  being, 
in  the  odious  helplessness  of  sickness,  a  burden  upon 
the  strength  and  sympathy  of  the  two  women  for 
whom  he  had  otherwise  made  so  much  trouble.  His 
satisfaction  in  this  had  much  to  do  with  his  recovery, 
which,  when  it  once  began,  progressed  rapidly  to  a 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  359 

point  where  he  was  told  that  Imogene  and  her 
mother  were  at  a  hotel  in  Florence,  waiting  till  he 
should  be  strong  enough  to  see  them.  It  was  Mrs. 
Bowen  who  told  him  this  with  an  air  which  she 
visibly  strove  to  render  non-committal  and  imper- 
sonal, but  which  betrayed,  nevertheless,  a  faint 
apprehension  for  the  effect  upon  him.  The  attitude 
of  Imogene  and  her  mother  was  certainly  not  one  to 
have  been  expected  of  people  holding  their  nominal 
relation  to  him,  but  Colville  had  been  revising  his 
impressions  of  events  on  the  day  of  his  accident; 
Imogene's  last  look  came  back  to  him,  and  he  could 
not  think  the  situation  altogether  unaccountable. 

"  Have  I  been  here  a  long  time  1 "  he  asked,  as  if 
he  had  not  heeded  what  she  told  him. 

"  About  a  fortnight,"  answered  Mrs.  Bowen. 
"  And  Imogene — how  long  has  she  been  away  1 " 
"  Since  they  knew  you  would  get  well." 
"  I  will  see  them  any  time,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  Do  you  think  you  are  strong  enough  1 " 
"  I  shall  never  be  stronger  till  I  have  seen  them," 
he  returned,  with  a  glance  at  her.     "  Yes ;  I  want 
them    to    come    to-day.       I    shall   not   be    excited ; 
don't  be  troubled — if   you  were  going  to  be,"   he 
added.     "  Please  send  to  them  at  once." 

Mrs.  Bowen  hesitated,  but  after  a  moment  left 
the  room.  She  returned  in  half  an  hour  with  a  lady 
who  revealed  even  to  Colville's  languid  regard 
evidences  of  the  character  which  Mrs.  Bowen  had 
attributed  to  Imogene's  mother.  She  was  a  large, 
robust  person,  laced  to  sufficient  shapeliness,  and 


3 GO  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

she  was  well  and  simply  dressed.  She  entered  the 
room  with  a  waft  of  some  clean,  wholesome  perfume, 
and  a  quiet  temperament  and  perfect  health  looked 
out  of  her  clear,  honest  eyes — the  eyes  of  Imogene 
Graham,  though  the  girl's  were  dark  and  the 
woman's  were  blue.  When  Mrs.  Bowen  had  named 
them  to  each  other,  in  withdrawing,  Mrs.  Graham 
took  Colville's  weak  left  hand  in  her  fresh,  strong, 
right,  and  then  lifted  herself  a  chair  to  his  bedside, 
and  sat  down. 

"How  do  you  do  to-day,  sir?"  she  said,  with  a 
touch  of  old-fashioned  respectfulness  in  the  last 
word.  "  Do  you  think  you  are  quite  strong  enough 
to  talk  with  me  ?" 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Colville,  with  a  faint  smile. 
"  At  least  I  can  listen  with  fortitude." 

Mrs.  Graham  was  not  apparently  a  person  adapted 
to  joking.  "  I  don't  know  whether  it  will  require 
much  fortitude  to  hear  what  I  have  to  say  or  not," 
she  said,  with  "her  keen  gaze  fixed  upon  him.  "It's 
simply  this  :  I  am  going  to  take  Imogene  home." 

She  seemed  to  expect  that  Colville  would  make 
some  reply  to  this,  and  he  said  blankly,  "  Yes  ?" 

"  I  came  out  prepared  to  consent  to  what  she 
wished,  after  I  had  seen  you,  and  satisfied  myself 
that  she  was  not  mistaken ;  for  I  had  always  pro- 
mised myself  that  her  choice  should  be  perfectly 
untrammelled,  and  I  have  tried  to  bring  her  up  with 
principles  and,  ideas  that  would  enable  her  to  make 
a  good  choice." 

"Yes,"   said   Colville   again.      "I'm  afraid,  you 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  361 

didn't  take  her  temperament  and  her  youth  into 
account,  and  that  she  disappointed  you." 

"  No ;  I  can't  say  that  she  did.  It  isn't  that  at 
all.  I  see  no  reason  to  blame  her  for  her  choice. 
Her  mistake  was  of  another  kind." 

It  appeared  to  Colville  that  this  very  sensible  and 
judicial  lady  found  an  intellectual  pleasure  in  the 
analysis  of  the  case,  which  modified  the  intensity  of 
her  maternal  feeling  in  regard  to  it,  and  that,  like 
many  people  who  talk  well,  she  liked  to  hear  herself 
talk  in  the  presence  of  another  appreciative  listener. 
He  did  not  offer  to  interrupt  her,  and  she  went  on. 
"  No,  sir,  I  am  not  disappointed  in  her  choice.  I 
think  her  chances  of  happiness  would  have  been 
greater,  in  the  abstract,  with  one  nearer  her  own 
age  ;  but  that  is  a  difference  which  other  things 
affect  so  much  that  it  did  not  alarm  me  greatly. 
Some  people  are  younger  at  your  age  than  at  hers. 
No,  sir,  that  is  not  the  point."  Mrs.  Graham 
fetched  a  sigh,  as  if  she  found  it  easier  to  say  what 
was  not  the  point  than  to  say  what  was,  and  her 
clear  gaze  grew  troubled.  But  she  apparently 
girded  herself  for  the  struggle.  "As  far  as  you 
are  concerned,  Mr.  Colville,  I  have  not  a  word  to 
say.  Your  conduct  throughout  has  been  most  high- 
minded  and  considerate  and  delicate." 

It  is  hard  for  any  man  to.  deny  merits  attributed 
to  him,  especially  if  he  has  been  ascribing  to  him- 
self the  opposite  demerits.  But  Colville  summoned 
his  dispersed  forces  to  protest  against  this. 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  he   cried.     "Anything  but  that. 


362  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

My  conduct  has  been  selfish  and  shameful.     If  you 
could  understand  all " 

"  I  think  I  do  understand  all — at  least  far  more, 
I  regret  to  say,  than  my  daughter  has  been  willing 
to  tell  me.  And  I  am  more  than  satisfied  with 
you.  I  thank  you  and  honour  you." 

,  "  Oh  no ;  don't  say  that,"  pleaded  Colville.     "  I 
really  can't  stand  it." 

"And  when  I  came  here  it  was  with  the  full 
intention  of  approving  and  confirming  Imogene's 
decision.  But  I  was  met  at  once  by  a  painful  and 
surprising  state  of  things.  You  are  aware  that  you 
have  been  very  sick  ?  " 

"Dimly,"  said  Colville. 

"  I  found  you  very  sick,  and  I  found  my  daughter 
frantic  at  the  error  which  she  had  discovered  in  her- 
self— discovered  too  late,  as  she  felt."  Mrs.  Graham 
hesitated,  and  then  added  abruptly,  "She  had  found 
out  that  she  did  not  love  you." 

"  Didn't  love  me  ?  "  repeated  Colville  feebly. 

"  She  had  been  conscious  of  the  truth  before,  but 
she  had  stifled  her  misgivings  insanely,  and,  as  I 
feel,  almost  wickedly,  pushing  on,  and  saying  to 
herself  that  when  you  were  married,  then  there 
would  be  no  escape,  and  she  must  love  you." 

"  Poor  girl !  poor  child  !     I  see,  I  see." 

"  But  the  accident  that  was  almost  your  death 
saved  her  from  that  miserable  folly  and  iniquity. 
iTes,"  she  continued,  in  answer  to  the  protest  in  his 
face,  "  folly  and  iniquity.  I  found  her  half  crazed 
at  your  bedside.  She  was  fully  aware  of  your 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  363 

danger,  but  while  she  was  feeling  all  the  remorse 
that  she  ought  to  feel — that  any  one  could  feel — 
she  was  more  and  more  convinced  that  she  never 
had  loved  you  and  never  should.  I  can  give  you 
no  idea  of  her  state  of  mind." 

"  Oh,  you  needn't !  you  needn't !  Poor,  poor 
child!" 

"  Yes,  a  child  indeed.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the 

pity  I  felt  for  her But  no  matter  about  that. 

She  saw  at  last  that  if  your  heroic  devotion  to  her  " 
— Colville  did  his  best  to  hang  his  pillowed  head  for 
shame — "  if  your  present  danger  did  not  awaken  her 
to  some  such  feeling  for  you  as  she  had  once  imagined 
she  had ;  if  they  both  only  increased  her  despair  and 
self-abhorrence,  then  the  case  was  indeed  hopeless. 
She  was  simply  distracted.  I  had  to  tear  her  away 
almost  by  force.  She  has  had  a  narrow  escape  from 
brain-fever.  And  now  I  have  come  to  implore,  to 
demand" — Mrs.  Graham,  with  all  her  poise  and 
calm,  was  rising  to  the  hysterical  key —  "  her  release 
from  a  fate  that  would  be  worse  than  death  for  such 
a  girl.  I  mean  marrying  without  the  love  of  her 
whole  soul.  She  esteems  you,  she  respects  you,  she 

admires  you,  she  likes  you ;  but "  Mrs.  Graham 

pressed  her  lips  together,  and  her  eyes  shone. 

"She  is  free,"  said  Colville,  and  with  the  words 
a  mighty  load  rolled  from  his  heart.  "  There  is  no 
need  to  demand  anything." 

"I  know." 

"  There  hasn't  been  an  hour,  an  instant,  during — 
since  I — we — spoke  together  that  I  wouldn't  have 


364  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

released  her  if  I  could  have  known  what  you  tell  me 
now." 

"  Of  course  ! — of  course  ! " 

"I  have  had  my  fears — my  doubts;  but  when- 
ever I  approached  the  point  I  found  no  avenue  by 
which  we  could  reach  a  clearer  understanding.  I 
could  not  say  much  without  seeming  to  seek  for 
myself  the  release  I  was  offering  her," 

"Naturally.  And  what  added  to  her  wretched- 
ness was  the  suspicion  at  the  bottom  of  all  that  she 
had  somehow  forced  herself  upon  you — misunder- 
stood you,  and  made  you  say  and  do  things  to  spare 
her  that  you  would  not  have  done  voluntarily." 
This  was  advanced  tentatively.  In  the  midst  of 
his  sophistications  Colville  had,  as  most  of  his  sex 
have,  a  native,  fatal,  helpless  truthfulness,  which 
betrayed  him  at  the  most  unexpected  moments, 
and.  this  must  now  have  appeared  in  his  counten- 
ance. The  lady  rose  haughtily.  She  had  appar- 
ently been  considering  him,  but,  after  all,  she  must 
have  been  really  considering  her  daughter.  "If 
anything  of  the  kind  was  the  case,"  she  said,  "I 
will  ask  you  to  spare  her  the  killing  knowledge. 
It's  quite  enough  for  me  to  know  it.  And  allow 
me  to  say,  Mr.  Colville,  that  it  would  have  been 
far  kinder  in  you " 

"  Ah,  think,  iny  dear  madam !"  he  exclaimed. 
"How  could  I  V  - 

She  did  think,  evidently,  and  when  she  spoke  it 
was  with  a  generous  emotion,  in  which  there  was  no 
trace  of  pique. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  365 

'•'  You  couldn't.  You  have  done  right ;  I  feel 
that,  and  I  will  trust  you  to  say  anything  you 
will  to  my  daughter." 

"To  your  daughter  ?     Shall  I  see  her  ?" 

"  She  came  with  me.  She  wished  to  beg  your 
forgiveness." 

Colville  lay  silent.  "  There  is  no  forgiveness  to 
be  asked  or  granted,"  he  said,  at  length.  "Why 
should  she  suffer  the  pain  of  seeing  me  1 — for  it  would 
be  nothing  else.  What  do  you  think  1  Will  it  do 
her  any  good  hereafter  ?  I  don't  tare  for  myself." 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  said  Mrs.  Graham. 
"  She  is  a  strange  child.  She  may  have  some  idea 
of  reparation." 

"Oh,  beseech  her  from  me  not  to  imagine  that 
any  reparation  is  due  !  Where  there  has  been  an 
error  there  must  be  blame ;  but  wherever  it  lies  in 
ours,  I  am  sure  it  isn't  at  her  door.  Tell  her  I  say 
this ;  tell  her  that  I  acquit  her  with  all  my  heart  of 
every  shadow  of  wrong  ;  that  I  am  not  unhappy, 
but  glad  for  her  sake  and  my  own  that  this  has 
ended  as  it  has."  He  stretched  his  left  hand  across 
the  coverlet  to  her,  and  said,  with  the  feebleness  of 
exhaustion,  "  Good-bye.  Bid  her  good-bye  for  me." 

Mrs.  Graham  pressed  his  hand  and  went  out.  A 
moment  after  the  door  was  flung  open,  and  Imogene 
burst  into  the  room.  She  threw  herself  on  her 
knees  beside  his  bed.  "  I  will  ,pray  to  you  ! "  she 
said,  her  face  intense  with  the  passions  working  in 
her  soul.  She  seemed  choking  with  words  which 
would  not  come ;  then,  with  an  inarticulate  cry  that 


366  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

must  stand  for  all,  she  caught  up  the  hand  that  lay 
limp  on  the  coverlet ;  she  crushed  it  against  her  lips, 
and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

He  sank  into  a  deathly  torpor,  the  physical  re- 
fusal of  his  brain  to  take  account  of  what  had 
passed.  When  he  woke  from  it,  little  Effie  Bowen 
was  airily  tiptoeing  about  the  room,  fondly  retouch- 
ing its  perfect  order.  He  closed  his  eyes,  and  felt 
her  come  to  him  and  smooth  the  sheet  softly  under 
his  chin.  Then  he  knew  she  must  be  standing  with 
clasped  hands  admiring  the  effect.  Some  one  called 
her  in  whisper  from  the  door.  It  closed,  and  all  was 
still  again. 


XXIL 

COLVILLE  got  himself  out  of  the  comfort  and 
quiet  of  Mrs.  Bowen's  house  as  soon  as  he  could. 
He  made  the  more  haste  because  he  felt  that  if  he 
could  have  remained  with  the  smallest  trace  of  self- 
respect,  he  would  have  been  glad  to  stay  there  for 
ever. 

Even  as  it  was,  the  spring  had  advanced  to  early 
summer,  and  the  sun  was  lying  hot  and  bright  in  the 
piazzas,  and  the  shade  dense  and  cool  in  the  narrow 
streets,  before  he  left  Palazzo  Pinti ;  the  Lung'  Arno 
was  a  glare  of  light  that  struck  back  from  the  curv- 
ing line  of  the  buff  houses  ;  the  river  had  shrivelled 
to  a  rill  in  its  bed  ;  the  black  cypresses  were  dim  in 
the  tremor  of  the  distant  air  on  the  hill-slopes 
beyond ;  the  olives  seemed  to  swelter  in  the  sun, 
and  the  villa  walls  to  burn  whiter  and  whiter.  At 
evening  the  mosquito  began  to  wind  his  tiny  horn. 
It  was  the  end  of  May,  and  nearly  everybody  but 
the  Florentines  had  gone  out  of  Florence,  dispersing 
to  Villa  Reggio  by  the  sea,  to  the  hills  of  Pistoja, 
and  to  the  high,  cool'  air  of  Siena.  More  than  once 
Colville  had  said  that  he  was  keeping  Mrs.  Bowen 

867 


368  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

after  she  ought  to  have  got  away,  and  she  had 
answered  that  she  liked  hot  weather,  and  that  this 
was  not  comparable  to  the  heat  of  Washington  in 
June.  She  was  looking  very  well,  and  younger  and 
prettier  than  she  had  since  the  first  days  of  their 
renewed  acquaintance  in  the  winter.  Her  southern 
complexion  enriched  itself  in  the  sun ;  sometimes 
when  she  came  into  his  room  from  outdoors  the 
straying  brown  hair  curled  into  loose  rings  on  her 
temples,  and  her  cheeks  glowed  a  deep  red. 

She  said  those  polite  things  to  appease  him  as 
long  as  he  was  not  well  enough  to  go  away,  but  she 
did  not  try  to  detain  him  after  his  strength  suffi- 
ciently returned.  It  was  the  blow  on  the  head  that 
kept  him  longest.  After  his  broken  arm  and  his 
other  bruises  were  quite  healed,  he  was  aware  of 
physical  limits  to  thinking  of  the  'future  or  regret- 
ting the  past,  and  this  sense  of  his  powerlessness 
went  far  to  reconcile  him  to  a  life  of  present  inaction 
and  oblivion.  Theoretically  he  ought  to  have  been 
devoured  by  remorse  and  chagrin,  but  as  a  matter 
of  fact  he  suffered  very  little  from  either.  Even  in 
people  who  are  in  full  possession  of  their  capacity 
for  mental  anguish  one  observes  that  after  they  have 
undergone  a  certain  amount  of  pain  they  cease  to 
feel. 

Colville  amused  himself  a  good  deal  with  Effie's 
endeavours  to  entertain  him  and  take  care  of  him. 
The  child  was  with  him  every  moment  that  she 
could  steal  from  Jier  tasks,  and  her  mother  no 
longer  attempted  to  stem  the  tide  of  her  devotion. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  369 

It  was  understood  that  Effie  should  joke  and  laugh 
with  Mr.  Colville  as  much  as  she  chose;  that  she 
should  fan  him  as  long  as  he  could  stand  it ;  that 
she  should  read  to  him  when  he  woke,  and  watch 
him  when  he  slept.  She  brought  him  his  breakfast, 
she  petted  him  and  caressed  him,  and  wished  to 
make  him  a  monster  of  dependence  and  self-indul- 
gence. It  seemed  to  grieve  her  that  he  got  well  so 
fast. 

The  last  night  before  he  left  the  house  she  sat  on 
his  knee  by  the  window  looking  out  beyond  the  fire- 
fly twinkle  of  Oltrarno,  to  the  silence  and  solid  dark 
of  the  solemn  company  of  hills  beyond.  They  had 
not  lighted  the  lamps  because  of  the  mosquitoes,  and 
they  had  talked  till  her  head  dropped  against  his 
shoulder. 

Mrs.  Bowen  came  in  to  get  her:  "  Why,  is  she 
asleep  1 " 

"  Yes.     Don't  take  her  yet,"  said  Colville. 

Mrs.  Bowen  rustled  softly  into  the  chair  which 
Effie  had  left  to  get  into  Colville's  lap.  Neither  of 
them  spoke,  and  he  was  so  richly  content  with  the 
peace,  the  tacit  sweetness  of  the  little  moment,  that 
he  would  have  been  glad  to  have  it  silently  endure 
for  ever.  If  any  troublesome  question  of  his  right  to 
such  a  moment  of  bliss  obtruded  itself  upon  him,  he 
did  not  concern  himself  with  it. 

"  We  shall  have  another  hot  day  to-morrow," 
said  Mrs.  Bowen  at  length.  "  I  hope  you  will  find 
your  room  comfortable." 

"Yes :  it's  at  the  back  of  the  hotel,  mighty  high, 
2  A 


370  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

and  wide,  and  no  sun  ever  comes  into  it  except 
when  they  show  it  to  foreigners  in  winter.  Then 
they  get  a  few  rays  to  enter  as  a  matter  of  business, 
on  condition  that  they  won't  detain  them.  I  dare 
say  I  shall  stay  there  some  time.  I  suppose  you 
will  be  getting  away  from  Florence  very  soon. 

"  Yes.     But  I  haven't  decided  where  to  go  yet." 

"  Should  you  like  some  general  expression  of 
my  gratitude  for  all  you've  done  for  me,  Mrs. 
Bowen?" 

"  No ;  I  would  rather  not.  It  has  been  a  great 
pleasure— to  Effie." 

"Oh,  a  luxury  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice." 
They  spoke  in  low  tones,  and  there  was  something 
in  the  hush  that  suggested  to  Colville  the  feasibility  of 
taking  into  his  unoccupied  hand  one  of  the  pretty 
hands  which  the*  pale  night-light  showed  him  lying 
in  Mrs.  Bowen's  lap.  But  he  forbore,  and  only 
sighed.  "  Well,  then,  I  will  say  nothing.  But  I  shall 
keep  on  thinking  all  my  life." 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  When  you  are  gone,  I  shall  have  to  make  the 
most  of  Mr.  Waters,"  he  said. 
.  "  He  is  going  to  stop  all  summer,  I  believe." 

"  Oh  yes.  When  I  suggested  to  him  the  other 
day  that  he  might  find  it  too  hot,  he  said  that  he 
had  seventy  New  England  winters  to  thaw  out  of 
his  blood,  and  that  all  the  summers  he  had  left 
would  not  be  more  than  he  needed.  One  of  his 
friends  told  him  that  he  could  cook  eggs  in  his 
piazza  in  August,  and  he  said  that  he  should  like 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  371 

nothing  better  than  to  cook  eggs  there.  He 's  the 
most  delightfully  expatriated  compatriot  I  've  ever 
seen." 

"Do  you  like  it?" 

"  It 's  well  enough  for  him.  Life  has  no  claims  on 
him  any  more.  I  think  it 's  very  pleasant  over  here, 
now  that  everybody 's  gone,"  added  Colville,  from  a 
confused  resentfulness  of  collectively  remembered 
Days  and  Afternoons  and  Evenings.  How  still  the 
night  is  !" 

A  few  feet  clapping  by  on  the  pavement  below 
alone  broke  the  hush. 

"  Sometimes  I  feel  very  tired  of  it  all,  and  want  to 
get  home,"  sighed  Mrs.  Bowen. 

"Well,  so  do  I." 

"  I  can't  believe  it 's  right  staying  away  from  the 
country  so  long."  People  often  say  such  things  in 
Europe. 

"  No,  I  don't  either,  if  you  Ve  got  anything  to  do 
there." 

"  You  can  always  make  something  to  do  there." 

"Oh  yes."  Some  young  young  men,  breaking 
from  a  street  near  by,  began  to  sing.  "  We  shouldn't 
have  that  sort  of  thing  at  home." 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen  pensively. 

"  I  heard  just  such  singing  before  I  fell  asleep  the 
night  after  that  party  at  Madame  Uccelli's,  and  it 
filled  me  with  fury." 

"  Why  should  it  do  that  T 

"  I  don't  know.  It  seemed  like  voices  from  our 
youth — Lina." 


372  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

She  had  no  resentment  of  his  use  of  her  name  in 
the  tone  with  which  she  asked  :  "  Did  you  hate  that 
so  much  ? " 

"  No ;  the  loss  of  it." 

They  both  fetched  a  deep  breath. 

"The  Uccellis  have  a  villa  near  the  baths  of 
Lucca,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen.  "  They  have  asked  me 
to  go." 

"  Do  you  think  of  going  *?  "  inquired  Colville. 
"  I  Ve  always  fancied  it  must  be  pleasant  there." 

"  No  ;  I  declined.  Sometimes  I  think  I  will  just 
stay  on  in  Florence." 

"  I  dare  say  you  M  find  it  perfectly  comfortable. 
There 's  nothing  like  having  the  range  of  one's  own 
house  in  summer."  He  looked  out  of  the  window 
on  the  blue-black  sky. 

"  *  And  deepening  through  their  silent  spheres, 
Heaven  over  heaven  rose  the  night,' " 

he  quoted.  "  It 's  wonderful !  Do  you  remember 
how  I  used  to  read  Mariana  in  the  South  to  you  and 
poor  Jenny  ?  How  it  must  have  bored  her !  What 
an  ass  I  was  !  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen  breathlessly,  in  sym- 
pathy with  his  reminiscence  rather  than  in  agree- 
ment with  his  self-denunciation. 

Colville  broke  into  a  laugh,  and  then  she  began  to 
laugh  to  •  but  not  quite  willingly  as  it  seemed. 

Effie  started  from  her  sleep.  "  What— what  is  it  ? " 
she  asked,  stretching  and  shivering  as  half-wakened 
children  do. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  373 

"Bed-time,"  said  her  mother  promptly,  taking 
her  hand  to  lead  her  away.  "  Say  good-night  to 
Mr.  Colville." 

The  child  turned  and  kissed  him.  "  Good  night," 
she  murmured.  • 

"  Good  night,  you  sleepy  little  soul ! "  It  seemed 
to  Colville  that  he  must  be  a  pretty  good  man,  after 
all,  if  this  little  thing  loved  him  so. 

"  Do  you  always  kiss  Mr.  Colville  good-night  ? " 
asked  her  mother  when  she  began  to  undo  her  hair 
for  her  in  her  room. 

"  Sometimes.     Don't  you  think  it 's  nice  ? " 

"  Oh  yes ;  nice  enough." 

Colville  sat  by  the  window  a  long  time  thinking 
Mrs.  Bowen  might  come  back;  but  she  did  not 
return. 

Mr.  Waters  came  to  see  him  the  next  afternoon 
at  his  hotel. 

"  Are  you  pretty  comfortable  here  1 "  he  asked. 

"  Well,  it 's  a  change,"  said  Colville.  "  I  miss  the 
little  one  awfully." 

"  She 's  a  winning  child,"  admitted  the  old  man. 
"  That  combination  of  conventionality  and  ndiveU  is 
very  captivating.  I  notice  it  in  the  mother." 

,"Yes,  the  mother  has  it  too.     Have  you   seen 
them  to-day  1 " 

"  Yes ;  Mrs.  Bowen  was  sorry  to  be  out  when  you 
came." 

"I  had  the  misfortune  to  miss  them.  I  had  a 
great  mind  to  go  again  to-night." 

The  old  man  said  nothing  to  this.     "  The  fact  is," 


374  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

Colville  went  on,  "  I  'm  so  habituated  to  being  there 
that  I  'm  rather  spoiled." 

"  Ah,  it 's  a  nice  place,"  Mr.  Waters  admitted. 

"  Of  course  I  made  all  the  haste  I  could  to  get 
away,  and  I  fcave  the  reward  of  a  good  conscience. 
But  I  don't  find  that  the  reward  is  very  great." 

The  old  gentleman  smiled.  "  The  difficulty  is  to 
know  conscience  from  self-interest." 

"  Oh,  there 's  no  doubt  of  it  in  my  case,"  said 
'Colville.  "If  I'd  consulted  my  own  comfort  and 
advantage,  I  should  still  be  at  Palazzo  Pinti." 

"  I  dare  say  they  would  have  been  glad  to  keep 
you." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so  1 "  asked  Colville,  with 
sudden  seriousness.  "  I  wish  you  would  tell  me 
why.  Have  you  any  reason — grounds  ?  Pshaw  ! 
I  'm  absurd  ! "  He  sank  back  into  the  easy-chair 
from  whose  depths  he  had  pulled  himself  in  the 
eagerness  of  his  demand,  and  wiped  his  forehead 
with  his  handkerchief.  "  Mr.  Waters,  you  remem- 
ber my  telling  you  of  my  engagement  to  Miss 
Graham  1 " 

"Yes." 

"  That  is  broken  off — if  it  were  ever  really  on.  It 
was  a  great  mistake  for  both  of  us — a  tragical  one 
for  her,  poor  child,  a  ridiculous  one  for  me.  My 
only  consolation  is  that  it  was  a  mistake  and  no 
more ;  but  I  don't  conceal  from  myself  that  I  might 
have  prevented  it  altogether  if  I  had  behaved  with 
greater  wisdom  and  dignity  at  the  outset.  But  I  'm 
afraid  I  was  flattered  by  an  illusion  of  hers  that 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  375 

ought  to  have  pained  and  alarmed  me,  and  the  rest 
followed  inevitably,  though  I  was  always  just  on  the 
point  of  escaping  the  consequences  of  my  weakness 
— my  wickedness." 

"Ah,  there  is  something  extremely  interesting  in 
all  that,"  said  the  old  minister  thoughtfully.  "  The 
situation  used  to  be  figured  under  the  old  idea  of  a 
compact  with  the  devil.  His  debtor  was  always  on 
the  point  of  escaping,  as  you  say,  but  I  recollect  no 
instance  in  which  he  did  not  pay  at  last.  The 
myth  must  have  arisen  from  man's  recognition  of 
the  inexorable  sequence  of  cause  from  effect,  in  the 
moral  world,  which  even  repentance  cannot  avert. 
Goethe  tries  to  imagine  an  atonement  for  Faust's 
trespass  against  one  human  soul  in  his  benefactions 
to  the  race  at  large ;  but  it  is  a  very  cloudy  busi- 
ness." 

"It  isn't  quite  a  parallel  case,"  said  Colville, 
rather  sulkily.  He  had,  in  fact,  suffered  more 
under  Mr.  Waters's  generalisation  than, he  could 
from  a  more  personal  philosophy  of  the  affair. 

"  Oh  no ;  I  didn't  think  that,"  consented  the  old 
man. 

"And  I  don't  think  I  shall  undertake  any  ex- 
tended scheme  of  drainage  or  subsoiling  in  atone- 
ment for  my  little  dream,"  Colville  continued, 
resenting  the  parity  of  outline  that  grew  upon  him 
in  spite  of  his  protest.  They  were  both  silent  for  a 
while,  and  then  Colville  cried  out,  "  Yes,  yes ;  they 
are  alike.  /  dreamed,  too,  of  recovering  and  re- 
storing my  own  lost  and  broken  past  in  the  love  of 


376  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

a  young  soul,  and  it  was  in  essence  the  same  cruelly 
egotistic  dream ;  and  it 's  nothing  in  my  defence 
that  it  was  all  formless  and  undirected  at  first,  and 
that  as  soon  as  I  recognised  it  I  abhorred  it." 

"  Oh  yes,  it  is,"  replied  the  old  man,  with  perfect 
equanimity.  "  Your  assertion  is  the  hysterical  ex- 
cess of  Puritanism  in  all  times  and  places.  In  the 
moral  world  we  are  responsible  only  for  the  wrong 
that  we  intend.  It  can't  be  otherwise." 

"  And  the  evil  that 's  suffered  from  the  wrong  we 
didn't  intend  ?" 

"  Ah,  perhaps  that  isn't  evil" 

"It's  pain!" 

"It's  pain,  yes." 

"  And  to  have  wrung  a  young  and  innocent  heart 
with  the  anguish  of  self-doubt,  with  the  fear  of 
wrong  to  another,  with  the  shame  of  an  error  such 
as  I  allowed,  perhaps  encouraged  her  to  make " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  man.  "  The  young  suffer 
terribly.  But  they  recover.  Afterward  we  don't 
suffer  so  much,  but  we  don't  recover.  I  wouldn't 
defend  you  against  yourself  if  I  thought  you  seri- 
ously in  the  wrong.  If  you  know  yourself  to  be, 
you  shouldn't  let  me." 

Thus  put  upon  his  honour,  Colville  was  a  long 
time  thoughtful.  "  How  can  I  tell  ?"  he  asked. 
"  You  know  the  facts  ;  you  can  judge." 

"  If  I  were  to  judge  at  all,  I  should  say  you  were 
likely  to  do  a  greater  wrong  than  any  you  have 
committed."  \ 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  377 

"  Miss  Graham  is  a  young  girl,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  that  the  young  clergyman — what  was  his 
name  1" 

"  Morton.  Do  you  think — do  you  suppose  there 
was  anything  in  that  1 "  demanded  Colville,  with 
eagerness,  that  a  more  humorous  observer  than  Mr. 
Waters  might  have  found  ludicrous.  "  He  was  an 
admirable  young  fellow,  with  an  excellent  head  and 
a  noble  heart.  I  underrated  him  at  one  time,  though 
I  recognised  his  good  qualities  afterward  ;  but  I  was 
afraid  she  did  not  appreciate  him." 

11  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  the  old  man,  with 
an  astuteness  of  manner  which  Colville  thought 
authorised  by  some  sort  of  definite  knowledge. 

"  I  would  give  the  world  if  it  were  so  ! "  he  cried 
fervently. 

"  But  you  are  really  very  much  more  concerned 
in  something  else." 

"  In  what  else  T 

"  Can't  you  imagine  V1 

"  No,"  said  Colville  ;  but  he  felt  himself  growing 
very  red  in  the  face. 

"  Then  I  have  no  more  to  say." 

"  Yes,  speak  !"  And  after  an  interval  Colville 
added,  "  Is  it  anything  about — you  hinted  at  some- 
thing long  ago — Mrs.  Bowen  1 " 

"  Yes  ; "  the  old  man  nodded  his  head.  "  Do  you 
owe  her  nothing  ? " 

"  Owe  her  nothing  1  Everything  !  My  life  ! 
What  self-respect  is  left  me  !  Immeasurable  grati- 
tude !  The  homage  of  a  man  saved  from  himself  as 


378  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

far  as  his  stupidity  and  selfishness  would  permit  ! 
Why,  I — I  love  her ! "  The  words  gave  him 
courage.  "  In  every  breath  and  pulse  !  She  is  the 
most  beautiful  and  gracious  and  wisest  and  best 
woman  in  the  world  !  I  have  loved  her  ever  since  I 
met  her  here  in  Florence  last  winter.  Good  heavens  ! 
I  must  have  always  loved  her  !  But,"  he  added, 
falling  from  the  rapture  of  this  confession,  "she 
simply  loathes  me  !  " 

"  It  was  certainly  not  to  your  credit  that  you  were 
willing  at  the  same  time  to  marry  some  one  else." 

"  Willing  !  I  wasn't  willing  !  I  was  bound  hand 
and  foot !  Yes—  I  don't  care  what  you  think  of  my 
weakness — I  was  not  a  free  agent.  It 's  very  well 
to  condemn  one's-self,  but  it  may  be  carried  too 
far;  injustice  to  others  is  not  the  only  injustice,  or 
the  worst.  What  I  was  willing  to  do  was  to  keep 
my  word — to  prevent  that  poor  child,  if  possible, 
from  ever  finding  out  her  mistake." 

If  Colville  expected  this  heroic  confession  to 
impress  his  listener  he  was  disappointed.  Mr. 
Waters  made  him  no  reply,  and  he  was  obliged 
to  ask,  with  a  degree  of  sarcastic  impatience,  "  I 
suppose  you  scarcely  blame  me  for  that  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  that  I  blame  people  for  things. 
There  are  times  when  it  seems  as  if  we  were  all 
puppets,  pulled  this  way  or  that,  without  control 
of  our  own  movements.  Hamlet  was  able  to  brow- 
beat Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern  with  his  business 
of  the  pipe ;  but  if  they  had  been  in  a  position  to 
answer  they  might  have  told  him  that  it  required 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  379 

far  less  skill  to  play  upon  a  man  than  any  other 
instrument.  Most  of  us,  in  fact,  go  sounding  on 
without  any  special  application  of  breath  or  fingers, 
repeating  the  tunes  that  were  played  originally  upon 
other  men.  It  appears  to  me  that  you  suffered 
yourself  to  do  something  of  the  kind  in  this  affair. 
We  are  a  long  time  learning  to  act  with  common- 
sense  or  even  common  sanity  in  what  are  called 
matters  of  the  affections.  A  broken  engagement 
may  be  a  bad  thing  in  some  cases,  but  I  am  inclined 
to  think  that  it  is  the  very  best  thing  that  could 
happen  in  most  cases  where  it  happens.  The  evil 
is  done  long  before;  the  broken  engagement  is 
merely  sanative,  and  so  far  beneficent." 

The  old  gentleman  rose,  and  Colville,  dazed  by 
the  recognition  of  his  own  cowardice  and  absurdity, 
did  not  try  to  detain  him.  But  he  followed  him 
down  to  the  outer  gate  of  the  hotel.  The  after- 
noon sun  was  pouring  into  the  piazza  a  sea  of  glim- 
mering heat,  into  which  Mr.  Waters  plunged  with 
the  security  of  a  salamander.  He  wore  a  broad- 
brimmed  Panama  hat,  a  sack  coat  of  black  alpaca, 
and  loose  trousers  of  the  same  material,  and  Col- 
ville fancied  him  doubly  defended  against  the  torrid 
waves  not  only  by  the  stored  cold  of  half  a  century 
of  winters  at  Haddam  East  Village,  but  by  an  inner 
coolness  of  spirit,  which  appeared  to  "diffuse  itself 
in  an  appreciable  atmosphere  about  him.  It  was 
not  till  he  was  gone  that  Colville  found  himself 
steeped  in  perspiration,  and  glowing  with  a  strange 
excitement. 


XXIII. 

COLVILLE  went  back  to  his  own  room,  and  spent  a 
good  deal  of  time  in  the  contemplation  of  a  suit  of 
clothes,  adapted  to  the  season,  which  had  been  sent 
home  from  the  tailor's  just  before  Mr.  Waters  came 
in.  The  coat  was  of  the  lightest  serge,  the  trousers 
of  a  pearly  grey  tending  to  lavender,  the  waistcoat 
of  cool  white  duck.  On  his  way  home  from  Palazzo 
Pinti  he  had  stopped  in  Via  Tornabuoni  and  bought 
some  silk  gauze  neckties  of  a  tasteful  gaiety  of  tint, 
which  he  had  at  the  time  thought  very  well  of.  But 
now,  as  he  spread  out  the  whole  array  on  his  bed,  it 
seemed  too  emblematic  of  a  light  and  blameless 
spirit  for  his  wear.  He  ought  to  put  on  something 
as  nearly  analogous  to  sackcloth  as  a  modern  stock 
of  dry-goods  afforded;  he  ought,  at  least,  to  wear 
the  grave  materials  of  his  winter  costume.  But 
they  were  really  insupportable  in  this  sudden  access 
of  summer.  •  Besides,  he  had  grown  thin  during  his 
sickness,  and  the  things  bagged  about  him.  If  he 
were  going  to  see  Mrs.  Bowen  that  evening,  he 
ought  to  go  in  some  decent  shape.  It  was  perhaps 
providential  that  he  had  failed  to  find  her  at  home 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  381 

in  the  morning,  when  he  had  ventured  thither  in 
the  clumsy  attire  in  which  he  had  been  loafing  about 
her  drawing-room  for  the  past  week.  He  now  owed 
it  to  her  to  appear  before  her  as  well  as  he  could. 
How  charmingly  punctilious  she  always  was  herself! 

As  he  put  on  his  new  clothes  he  felt  the  moral 
support  which  the  becomingness  of  dress  alone  can 
give.  With  the  blue  silk  gauze  lightly  tied  under 
his  collar,  and  the  lapels  of  his  thin  coat  thrown 
back  to  admit  his  thumbs  to  his  waistcoat  pockets, 
he  felt  almost  cheerful  before  his  glass.  Should  he 
shave  1  As  once  before,  this  important  question 
occurred  to  him.  His  thinness  gave  him  some 
advantages  of  figure,  but  he  thought  that  it  made 
his  face  older.  What  effect  would  cutting  off  his 
beard  have  upon  it1?  He  had  not  seen  the  lower 
part  of  his  face  for  fifteen  years.  No  one  could  say 
what  recent  ruin  of  a  double  chin  might  not  be 
lurking  there.  He  decided  not  to  shave,  at  least  till 
after  dinner,  and  after  dinner  he  was  too  impatient 
for  his  visit  to  brook  the  necessary  delay. 

He  was  shown  into  the  salotto  alone,  but  Effie 
Bowen  came  running  in  to  meet  him.  She  stopped 
suddenly,  bridling. 

"  You  never  expected  to  see  me  looking  quite  so 
pretty,"  said  Colville,  tracing  the  cause  of  her  em- 
barrassment to  his  summer  splendour.  "  Where  is 
your  mamma  1 " 

"She  is  in  the  dining-room,"  replied  the  child, 
getting  hold  of  his  hand.  "  She  wants  you  to  come 
and  have  coffee  with  us." 


382  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"By  all  means — not  that  I  haven't  had  coffee 
already,  though." 

She  led  the  way,  looking  up  at  him  shyly  over 
her  shoulder  as  they  went. 

Mrs.  Bowen  rose,  napkin  in  lap,  and  gave  him  a 
hand  of  welcome.  "How  are  you  feeling  to-day  ?" 
she  asked,  politely  ignoring  his  finery. 

"  Like  a  new  man,"  he  said.  And  then  he  added, 
to  relieve  the  strain  of  the  situation,  "  Of  the  best 
tailor's  make  in  Florence." 

"  You  look  very  well,"  she  smiled. 

"Oh,  I  always  do  when  I  take  pains,"  said 
Colville.  "  The  trouble  is  that  I  don't  always  take 
pains.  But  I  thought  I  would  to-night,  in  calling 
upon  a  lady." 

"Effie  will  feel  very  much  flattered,"  said  Mrs. 
Bowen. 

"Don't  refuse  a  portion  of  the  satisfaction,"  he 
cried.  % 

"Oh,  is  it  for  me  too  ?" 

This  gave  Colville  consolation  which  no  religion 
or  philosophy  could  have  brought  him,  and  his 
pleasure  was  not  marred,  but  rather  heightened,  by 
the  little  pangs  of  expectation,  bred  by  long  custom, 
that  from  moment  to  moment  Imogene  would 
appear.  She  did  not  appear,  and  a  thrill  of  security 
succeeded  upon  each  alarm.  He  wished  her  well 
with  all  his  heart ;  such  is  the  human  heart  that  he 
wished  her  arrived  home  the  bretrothed  of  that 
excellent,  that  wholly  unobjectionable  young  man, 
Mr.  Morton. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  383 

"Will  you  have  a  little  of  the  ice  before  your 
coffee  1 "  asked  Mrs.  Bowen,  proposing  one  of  the 
moulded  creams  with  her  spoon. 

"  Yes,  thank  you.  Perhaps  I  will  take  it  in  place 
of  the  coffee.  They  forgot  to  offer  us  any  ice  at  the 
table  d'hote  this  evening." 

"This  is  rather  luxurious  for  us,"  said  Mrs. 
Bowen.  "It's  a  compromise  with  Effie.  She 
wanted  me  to  take  her  to  Giacosa's  this  afternoon." 

"  I  thought  you  would  come,"  whispered  the  child 
to  Colville. 

Her  mother  made  a  little  face  of  mock  surprise  at 
her.  "  Don't  give  yourself  away,  Effie." 

41  Why,  let  us  go  to  Giacosa's  too,"  said  Colville, 
taking  the  ice.  "  We  shall  be  the  only  foreigners 
there,  and  we  shall  not  even  feel  ourselves  foreign. 
It 's  astonishing  how  the  hot  weather  has  dispersed 
the  tourists.  I  didn't  see  a  Baedeker  on  the  whole 
way  up  here,  and  I  walked  down  Via  Tornabuoni 
across  through  Porta  Rosso  and  the  Piazza  della 
Signoria  and  the  Uffizzi.  You  Ve  no  idea  how  com- 
fortable and  home-like  it  was — all  the  statues  loafing 
about  in  their  shirt  sleeves,  and  the  objects  of  inter- 
est stretching  and  yawning  round,  and  having  a 
good  rest  after  their  winter's  work." 

Effie  understood  Colville's  way  of  talking  well 
enough  to  enjoy  this  ;  her  mother  did  not  laugh. 

"  Walked  1 "  she  asked. 

"  Certainly.     Why  not  ] " 

"  You  are  getting  well  again.  You  '11  soon  be 
gone  too." 


384  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  I  've  got  well.  But  as  to  being  gone,  there 's  no 
hurry.  I  rather  think  I  shall  wait  now  to  see  how 
long  you  stay." 

"  We  may  keep  you  all  summer,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen, 
dropping  her  eyelids  indifferently. 

"  Oh,  very  well.  All  summer  it  is,  then.  Mr. 
Waters  is  going  to  stay,  and  he  is  such  a  very  cool 
old  gentleman  that  I  don't  think  one  need  fear  the 
wildest  antics  of  the  mercury  where  he  is." 

When  Colville  had  finished  his  ice,  Mrs.  Bowen 
led  the  way  to  the  salotto ;  and  they  all  sat  down 
by  the  window  there  and  watched  the  sunset  die  on 
San  Miniato.  The  bronze  copy  of  Michelangelo's 
David,  in  the  Piazzale  below  the  church,  blackened 
in  perfect  relief  against  the  pink  sky  and  then  faded 
against  the  grey  while  they  talked.  They  were  so 
domestic  that  Colville  realised  with  difficulty  that 
this  was  an  image  of  what  might  be  rather  than 
what  really  was  ;  the  very  ease  with  which  he  could 
apparently  close  his  hand  upon  the  happiness  within 
his  grasp  unnerved  him.  The  talk  strayed  hither 
and  thither,  and  went  and  came  aimlessly.  A  sound 
of  singing  floated  in  from  the  kitchen,  and  Effie 
eagerly  asked  her  mother  if  she  might  go  and  see 
Maddalena.  Maddalena's  mother  had  come  to  see 
her,  and  she  was  from  the  mountains. 

"  Yes,  go,"  said  Mrs.  Bowen ;  "  but  don't  stay  too 
long." 

"  Oh,  I  will  be  back  in  time,"  said  the  child,  and 
Colville  remembered  that  he  had  proposed  going  to 
Giacosa's. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  385 

"Yes;  don't  forget."  He  had  forgotten  it  him- 
self. 

"  Maddalena  is  the  cook,"  explained  Mrs.  Bowen. 
"  She  sings  ball  ads  to  Effie  that  she  learned  from  her 
mother,  and  I  suppose  Effie  wants  to  hear  them  at 
first  hand." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Colville  dreamily. 

They  were  alone  now,  and  each  little  silence 
seemed  freighted  with  a  meaning  deeper  than 
speech. 

"Have  you  seen  Mr.  Waters  to-day?"  asked 
Mrs.  Bowen,  after  one  of  these  lapses. 

"Yes;  he  came  this  afternoon." 

"  He  is  a  very  strange  old  man.  I  should  think 
he  would  be  lonely  here." 

"  He  seems  not  to  be.  He  says  he  finds  company 
in  the  history  of  the  place.  And  his  satisfaction 
at  having  got  out  of  Haddam  East  Village  is  per- 
ennial." 

"But  he  will  want  to  go  back  there  before  he 
dies." 

"  I  don't  know.  He  thinks  not.  He 's  a  strange 
old  man,  as  you  say.  He  has  the  art  of  putting  all 
sorts  of  ideas  into  people's  heads.  Do  you  know 
what  we  talked  about  this  afternoon  1 " 

"  No',  I  don't,"  murmured  Mrs.  Bowen. 

"  About  you.  And  he  encouraged  me  to  believe 
— imagine — that  I  might  speak  to  you — ask — tell 
you  that — I  loved  you,  Lina."  He  leaned  forward 
and  took  one  of  the  hands  that  lay  in  her  lap.  It 
trembled  with  a  violence  inconceivable  in  relation 
2  B 


386  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

to  the  perfect  quiet  of  her  attitude.  But  she  did 
not  try  to  take  it  away.  "  Could  you — do  you  love 
me?" 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered ;  but  here  she  sprang  up 
and  slipped  from  his  hold  altogether,  as  with  an 
inarticulate  cry  of  rapture  he  released  her  hand  to 
take  her  in  his  arms. 

He  followed  her  a  pace  or  two.  "  And  you  will 
— will  be  my  wife  1 "  he  pursued  eagerly. 

"  Never  !  "  she  answered,  and  now  Colville  stopped 
short,  while  a  cold  bewilderment  bathed  him  from 
head  to  foot.  It  must  be  some  sort  of  jest,  though 
he  could  not  tell  where  the  humour  was,  and  he 
could  not  treat  it  otherwise  than  seriously. 

"Lina,  I  have  loved  you  from  the  first  moment 
that  I  saw  you  this  winter,  and  Heaven  knows  how 
long  before ! " 

"  Yes ;  I  know  that." 

"  And  every  moment." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that  too." 

"  Even  if  I  had  no  sort  of  hope  that  you  cared  for 
me,  I  loved  you  so  much  that  I  must  tell  you  before 
we  parted " 

"  I  expected  that — I  intended  it." 

"  You  intended  it !  and  you  do  love  me  !  And 
yet  you  won't Ah,  I  don't  understand  ! " 

"  How  could  you  understand  1  I  love  you — I 
blush  and  burn  for  shame  to  think  that  I  love  you. 
But  I  will  never  marry  you;  I  can  at  least  help 
doing  that,  and  I  can  still  keep  some  little  trace  of 
self-respect.  How  you  must  really  despise  me,  to 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  387 

think  of  anything  else,  after  all  that  has  happened  ! 
Did  you  suppose  that  I  was  merely  waiting  till  that 
poor  girl's  back  was  turned,  as  you  were  1  Oh,  how 
can  you  ]be  yourself,  and  still  be  yourself?  Yes, 
Jenny  Wheelwright  was  right.  You  are  too  much 
of  a  mixture,  Theodore  Colville" — her  calling  him 
so*  showed  how  often  she  had  thought  of  him  so — 
"  too  much  for  her,  too  much  for  Imogene,  too  much 
for  me ;  too  much  for  any  woman  except  some 
wretched  creature  who  enjoys  being  trampled  on 
and  dragged  through  the  dust,  as  you  have  dragged 
me." 

"  /  dragged  you  through  the  dust  1  There  hasn't 
been  a  moment  in  the  past  six  months  when  I 
wouldn't  have  rolled  myself  in  it  to  please  you." 

"  Oh,  I  knew  that  well  enough !  And  do  you 
think  that  was  flattering  to  me  1 " 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  only  know 
that  I  love  you,  and  that  I  couldn't  help  wishing  to 
show  it  even  when  I  wouldn't  acknowledge  it  to 
myself.  That  is  all.  And  now  when  I  am  free 
to  speak,  and  you  own  that  you  love  me,  you 

won't I  give  it  up ! "  he  cried  desperately. 

But  in  the  next  breath  he  implored,  "  Why  do  you 
drive  me  from  you,  Lina  ? " 

"Because  you  have  humiliated  me  too  much." 
She  was  perfectly  steady,  but  he  knew  her  so  well 
that  in  the  twilight  he  knew  what  bitterness  there 
must  be  in  the  smile  which  she  must  be  keeping  on 
her  lips.  "  I  was  here  in  the  place  of  her  mother, 
her  best  friend,  and  you  made  me  treat  her  like  an 


388  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

enemy.  You  made  me  betray  her  and  cast  her 
off/' 

"If" 

"  Yes,  you  !  I  knew  from  the  very  first  that  you 
did  not  really  care  for  her,  that  you  were  playing 
with  yourself,  as  you  were  playing  with  her,  and  I 
ought  to  have  warned  her." 

"It  appears  to  me  you  did  warn  her,"  said  Col- 
ville,  with  some  resentful  return  of  courage. 

"I  tried,"  she  said  simply,  "  and  it  made  it  worse. 
It  made  it  worse  because  I  knew  that  I  was  acting 
for  my  own  sake  more  than  hers,  because  I  wasn't 
— disinterested."  There  was  something  in  this  ex- 
planation, serious,  tragic,  as  it  was  to  Mrs.  Bowen, 
which  made  Colville  laugh.  She  might  have  had 
some  perception  of  its  effect  to  him,  or  it  may  have 
been  merely  from  a  hysterical  helplessness,  but  she 
laughed  too  a  little. 

"  But  why,"  he  gathered  courage  to  ask,  "  do  you 
still  dwell  upon  that?  Mr.  Waters  told  me  that 
Mr.  Morton — that  there  was " 

"He  is  mistaken.  He  offered  himself,  and  she 
refused  him.  He  told  me." 

"Oh!" 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  do  otherwise,  with  you 
lying  here  between  life  and  death  ?  No :  you  can 
have  no  hope  from  that." 

Colville,  in  fact,  had  none.  This  blow  crushed 
and  dispersed  him.  He  had  not  strength  enough 
to  feel  resentment  against  Mr.  Waters  for  mislead- 
ing him  with  this  ignis  fatuus. 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  389 

"  No  one  warned  him,  and  it  came  to  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Bowen.  "  It  was  of  a  piece  with  the  whole 
affair.  I  was  weak  in  that  too." 

Colville  did  not  attempt  to  reply  on  this  point. 
He  feebly  reverted  to  the  inquiry  regarding  him- 
self, and  was  far  enough  from  mirth  in  resuming 
it. 

"I  couldn't  imagine,"  he  said,  "that  you  cared 
anything  for  me  when  you  warned  another  against 
me.  If  I  could " 

"  You  put  me  in  a  false  position  from  the  begin- 
ning. I  ought  to  have  sympathised  with  her  and 
helped  her  instead  of  making  the  poor  child  feel 
that  somehow  I  hated  her.  I  couldn't  even  put 
her  on  guard  against  herself,  though  I  knew  all 
along  that  she  didn't  really  care  for  you,  but  was 
just  in  love  with  her  own  fancy  for  you,  Even 
after  you  were  engaged  I  ought  to  have  broken  it 
off;  I  ought  to  have  been  frank  with  her;  it  was 
my  duty ;  but  I  couldn't  without  feeling  that  I  was 
acting  for  myself  too,  and  I  would  not-  submit  to 
that  degradation.  No  !  I  would  rather  have  died. 
I  dare  say  you  don't  understand.  How  could  you  ] 
You  are  a  man,  and  the  kind  of  man  who  couldn't. 
At  every  point  you  made  me  violate  every  principle 
that  was  dear  to  me.  I  loathed  myself  for  caring 
for  a  man  who  was  in  love  with  me  when  he  was 
engaged  to  another.  Don't  think  it  was  gratifying 
to  me.  It  was  detestable ;  and  yet  I  did  let  you  see 
that  I  cared  for  you.  Yes,  I  even  tried  to  make  you 
care  for  me — falsely,  cruelly,  treacherously." 


390  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  You  didn't  have  to  try  very  hard,"  said  Colville, 
with  a  sort  of  cold  resignation  to  his  fate. 

"  Oh  no  ;  you  were  quite  ready  for  any  hint.  I 
could  have  told  her  for  her  own  sake  that  she 
didn't  love  you,  but  that  would  have  been  for  my 
sake  too ;  and  I  would  have  told  you  if  I  hadn't 
cared  for  you  and  known  how  you  cared  for  me. 
I've  saved  at  least  the  consciousness  of  this  from 
the  wreck." 

"  I  don't  think  it 's  a  great  treasure,"  said  Colville. 
"I  wish  that  you  had  saved  the  consciousness  of 
having  been  frank  even  to  your  own  advantage." 

"  Do  you  dare  to  reproach  me,  Theodore  Colville  1 
But  perhaps  I  Ve  deserved  this  too." 

"  No,  Lina,  you  certainly  don't  deserve  it,  if  it 's 
unkindness,  from  me.  I  won't  afflict  you  with  my 
presence  :  but  will  you  listen  to  me  before  I  go  ? " 

She  sank  into  a  chair  in  sign  of  assent.  He  also 
sat  down.  He  had  a  dim  impression  that  he  could 
talk  better  if  he  took  her  hand,  but  he  did  not 
venture  to  ask  for  it.  He  contented  himself  with 
fixing  his  eyes  upon  as  much  of  her  face  as  he  could 
make  out  in  the  dusk,  a  pale  blur  in  a  vague  outline 
of  dark. 

"  I  want  to  assure  you,  Lina — Lina,  my  love,  my 
dearest,  as  I  shall  call  you  for  the  first  and  last  time  ! 
— that  I  do  understand  everything,  as  delicately  and 
fully  as  you  could  wish,  all  that  you  have  expressed, 
and  all  that  you  have  left  unsaid.  I  understand  how 
high  and  pure  your  ideals  of  duty  are,  and  how 
heroically,  angelically,  you  have  struggled  to  fulfil 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  391 

them,  broken  and  borne  down  by  my  clumsy  and 
stupid  selfishness  from  the  start.  I  want  you  to 
believe,  my  dearest  love — you  must  forgive  me  ! — 
that  if  I  didn't  see  everything  at  the  time,  I  do  see  it 
now,  and  that  I  prize  the  love  you  kept  from  me  far 
more  than  any  love  you  could  have  given  me  to  the 
loss  of  your  self-respect.  It  isn't  logic — it  sounds 
more  like  nonsense,  I  am  afraid — but  you  know 
what  I  mean  by  it.  You  are  more  perfect,  more 
lovely  to  me,  than  any  being  in  the  world,  and  I 
accept  whatever  fate  you  choose  for  me.  I  would 
not  win  you  against  your  will  if  I  could.  You  are 
sacred  to  me.  If  you  say  we  must  part,  I  know 
that  you  speak  from  a  finer  discernment  than  mine, 
and  I  submit.  I  will  try  to  console  myself  with  the 
thought  of  your  love,  if  I  may  not  have  you.  Yes, 
I  submit." 

His  instinct  of  forbearance  had  served  him  better 
than  the  subtlest  art.  His  submission  was  the  best 
defence.  He  rose  with  a  real  dignity,  and  she  rose 
also.  "  Eemember,"  he  said,  "  that  I  confess  all  you 
accuse  me  of,  and  that  I  acknowledge  the  justice  of 
what  you  do — because  you  do  it."  He  put  out  his 
hand  and  took  the  hand  which  hung  nerveless  at  her 
side.  "  You  are  quite  right.  Good-bye."  He  hesi- 
tated a  moment.  "  May  I  kiss  you,  Lina  1"  He 
drew  her  to  him,  and  she  let  him  kiss  her  on  the 
lips. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  whispered.     "  Go " 

"I  am  going." 

Em'e  Bowen  ran  into  the  room  from  the  kitchen. 


392  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  take "  She  stopped  and 

turned  to  her  mother.  She  must  not  remind  Mr. 
Colville  of  his  invitation ;  that  was  what  her  gesture 
expressed. 

Colville  would  not  say  anything.  He  would  not 
seize  his  advantage,  and  play  upon  the  mother's 
heart  through  the  feelings  of  her  child,  though  there 
is  no  doubt  that  he  was  tempted  to  prolong  the 
situation  by  any  means.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Bowen 
divined  both  the  temptation  and  the  resistance. 
"  Tell  her,"  she  said,  and  turned  away. 

"  I  can't  go  with  you  to-night,  Effie,"  he  said, 
stooping  toward  her  for  the  inquiring  kiss  that  she 
gave  him.  "  I  am — going  away,  and  I  must  say 
good-bye." 

The  solemnity  of  his  voice  alarmed  her.  "  Going 
away  !"  she  repeated. 

"Yes — away  from  Florence.  I'm  afraid  I  shall 
not  see  you  again." 

The  child  turned  from  him  to  her  mother  again, 
who  stood  motionless.  Then,  as  if  the  whole 
calamitous  fact  had  suddenly  flashed  upon  her,  she 
plunged  her  face  against  her  mother's  breast.  "I 
can't  bear  it  !"  she  sobbed  out ;  and  the  reticence  of 
her  lamentation  told  more  than  a  storm  of  cries  and 
prayers. 

Colville  wavered. 

"  Oh,  you  must  stay  ! "  said  Lina,  in  the  self-con- 
temptuous voice  of  a  woman  who  falls  below  her 
ideal  of  herself. 


XXIV. 

IN  the  levities  which  the  most  undeserving  hus- 
bands permit  themselves  with  the  severest  of  wives, 
there  were  times  after  their  marriage  when  Colville 
accused  Lin  a  of  never  really  intending  to  drive  him 
away,  but  of  meaning,  after  a  disciplinary  ordeal,  to 
marry  him  in  reward  of  his  tested  self-sacrifice  and 
obedience.  He  said  that  if  the  appearance  of  Effie 
was  not  a  coup  de  theatre  contrived  beforehand,  it  was 
an  accident  of  no  consequence  whatever ;  that  if  she 
had  not  come  in  at  that  moment,  her  mother  would 
have  found  some  other  pretext  for  detaining  him. 
This  is  a  point  which  I  would  not  presume  to  decide. 
I  only  know  that  they  were  married  early  in  June 
before  the  syndic  of  Florence,  who  tied  a  tricolour 
sash  round  his  ample  waist  for  the  purpose,  and 
never  looked  more  paternal  or  venerable  than  when 
giving  the  sanction  of  the  Italian  state  to  their 
union.  It  is  not,  of  course,  to  be  supposed  that 
Mrs.  Colville  was  contented  with  the  civil  rite, 
though  Colville  may  have  thought  it  quite  sufficient. 
The  religious  ceremony  took  place  in  the  English 
chapel,  the  assistant  clergyman  officiating  in  the 

393 


394  INDIAN  SUMMER. 

absence  of  the  incumbent,  who  had  already  gone 
out  of  town. 

The  Eev.  Mr.  Waters  gave  away  the  bride,  and 
then  went  home  to  Palazzo  Pinti  with  the  party, 
the  single  and  singularly  honoured  guest  at  their 
wedding  feast,  for  which  Erne  Bo  wen  went  with 
Colville  to  Giacosa's  to  order  the  ices  in  person. 
She  has  never  regretted  her  choice  of  a  step-father, 
though  when  Colville  asked  her  how  she  would  like 
him  in  that  relation  she  had  a  moment  of  hesitation, 
in  which  she  reconciled  herself  to  it ;  as  to  him  she 
had  no  misgivings.  He  has  sometimes  found  him- 
self the  object  of  little  jealousies  on  her  part,  but  by 
promptly  deciding  all  questions  between  her  and  her 
mother  in  Effie's  favour  he  has  convinced  her  of  the 
groundlessness  of  her  suspicions. 

In  the  absence  of  any  social  pressure  to  the  con- 
trary, the  Colvilles  spent  the  summer  in  Palazzo 
Pinti.  Before  their  fellow-sojourners  returned  from 
the  mlleggiatum  in  the  fall,  however,  they  had  turned 
their  faces  southward,  and  they  are  now  in  Rome, 
where,  arriving  as  a  married  couple,  there  was  no 
inquiry  and  no  interest  in  their  past. 

It  is  best  to  be  honest,  and  own  that  the  affair 
with  Imogene  has  been  the  grain  of  sand  to  them. 
No  one  was  to  blame,  or  very  much  to  blame ;  even 
Mrs.  Colville  says  that.  It  was  a  thing  that  hap- 
pened, but  one  would  rather  it  had  not  happened. 

Last  winter,  however,  Mrs.  Colville  received  a 
letter  from  Mrs.  Graham  which  suggested,  if  it  did 
not  impart,  consolation.  "  Mr.  Morton  was  here 


INDIAN  SUMMER.  395 

the  other  day,  and  spent  the  morning.  He  has  a 
parish  at  Erie,  and  there  is  talk  of  his  coming  to 
Buffalo." 

"  Oh,  Heaven  grant  it ! "  said  Colville,  with 
sudden  piety. 

"  Why  1 "  demanded  his  wife. 

"  Well,  I  wish  she  was  married." 

"You  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  her." 

It  took  him  some  time  to  realise  that  this  was 
the  fact. 

"  No,"  he  confessed ;  "  but  what  do  you  think 
about  it  ? " 

"  There  is  no  telling.  We  are  such  simpletons ! 

If  a  man  will  keep  on  long  enough But  if  it  isn't 

Mr.  Morton,  it  will  be  some  one  else— some  young 
person." 

Colville  rose  and  went  round  the  breakfast  table 
to  her.  "I  hope  so,"  he  said.  "/  have  married  a 
young  person,  and  it  would  only  be  fair." 

This  magnanimity  was  irresistible. 


THE  END. 


